


Warriors

by salainen



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 33,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salainen/pseuds/salainen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our favourite mercenaries attempt to make friendship work, or, a story for every two-person pair a team can provide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Demoman & Engineer

Engineer remembers the day he arrived at the base, and the young woman who was showing him around brought him to the lab.

“Here's your workspace,” she said, adjusting her cats'-eye glasses. “It's state-of-the-art and should have everything you need to build anything you want. Anything according to company policy, anyway.”

“It sure looks nice,” he had said, taken in by the clean surfaces and gleaming metal. When he actually took stock of the equipment, he had noticed there were duplicates of several things, indicating two people. “Are y'all expecting another Engineer?”

“Oh, no, there's only one of each of you to a team. The second set of materials is for your team's Demoman – he builds his own equipment, too, and the base only had two labs, and we figured the Medic probably couldn't share as easily. So the two of you are sharing. Is that going to be a problem?” Miss Pauling asked it like she meant it, but her eyes said “too bad if it is”.

“Not at all,” Engie had said, though he worried for the safety of his machines around an explosives expert. But he was sure that the Demoman was a professional, and the two of them would get along fine.

* * *

Demo's side of the lab is quickly scorched and pockmarked from explosion after explosion (“testing”, he calls it, though Engineer would call it “working while drunk”). Engineer's side has a couple of bullet holes from a wayward sentry, but is otherwise unharmed.

“Ka-BOOM!” Demo shouts as another bomb goes off, this time even on purpose.

“Rule number one,” Engie says. “No battle cries in the lab.”

“It's part of me process,” Demo replies. “I don't complain about your awful cowboy music.”

Engie hits a button and shuts off the radio. “Rule number two: no cowboy music.”

* * *

“Watch out, mate, one of me bombs has rolled over there again,” Demo says, a few weeks later, when there are sixty-eight rules between them. “I'm coming to get it.”

Engie, for his part, grabs the sentry part he's working on and shelters behind the upturned table he uses specifically for this purpose. He's been sent to the Medic and through Respawn too many times to believe Demo will amble over and disarm it quickly enough.

“As soon as I finish this sentry, the next thing I'm going to build is a wall between your side and my side,” Engineer tells him.

Demo frowns. “Why's that?”

“Because I get tired of doing the Duck and Cover every ten minutes because you can't keep your damn hands on your bombs!”

“If it'll make you feel better, lad,” he says, holding the disabled grenade up for Engie to see.

* * *

The wall is only a ledge, in truth, meant to keep anything round from rolling onto Engie's side of the lab. But it serves its purpose, and Engineer's various gadgets and gizmos are safe from being blown to smithereens, even when he lays them out on the floor.

Things improve after that, now that Engie's not constantly worrying about his machinery and they've got their rules in place.

“Rule seventy-one, lad,” Demo says, stepping over the wall and borrowing some of Engie's tools. “Taking these for a few minutes.”

“Rule seventy-two, put them back when you're done," he says, not even looking up from his welding.

“I always do,” he says, and it's true. The Demoman borrows from Engineer's more expansive tool collection frequently, but not once has he even had to ask for something back, because Demo will hop over the ledge and put them back the second he's done with them.

* * *

“I was thinking,” Engie says, after they've been working together about two months, “I could use some help on the newest sentry upgrade.”

“You're making that monstrosity even more powerful?” Engineer nods. “I like your style, mate!”

“I want to make it a bit more explosion-resistant, for one thing – the other team's Demo keeps blasting them apart – and add a rocket launcher.”

“I'll come up with some rocket fuel for you right away – got plenty of the stuff, thanks to Soldier – and then we can get to the fun stuff.”

“And what's that?”

“Testing all me bombs on sheets of metal.”

He's right; it turns out to be insanely fun to prop a sheet of thick metal against the wall and blast away at it with one of Demo's grenade launchers. It's also insanely noisy.

“What on earth are you doing in here?” Medic shouts, starting even before he gets in the door. “I can hear you at the other end of the building! I am trying to do surgery and it is _very delicate work_!”

He opens the door to find the two of them wearing Engie's hardhats and goggles, Demo's grenade launchers in hand. A stray bomb explodes.

“It's for science,” they answer in unison.


	2. Pyro & Spy

There's a lull in the battle, the other side having been thoroughly routed and sent to respawn as a unit, and Spy is cloaked. It's the perfect moment to light a new cigarette, his last having been lost when he was forced to leap into a pool of water to escape the other team's Pyro. That thing is a menace.

He pats down the pockets of his still-damp, slightly charred suit (he'll never forgive that Pyro for ruining it), and produces his cigarette case-slash-disguise kit. He takes a cigarette from it and puts it between his lips in anticipation of lighting it. But when Spy goes to take his lighter from one of his other pockets, he finds nothing. He checks the other six, finding nothing. He runs back to the pool he jumped into to douse the flames, groaning when he looks over the edge. There, at the bottom, is a small silver rectangle. His lighter.

“ _Merde_ ,” he says, under his breath. Spy is now faced with a choice: jump back in the water, swim to the bottom, and probably resurface face-to-face with the other team's guns, or spend the rest of the match in the throes of a nicotine fit, which will be both unpleasant and make his job more difficult.

The problem is solved when he catches a flash of light off the lens of a gas mask. His first instinct is to run away, but this Pyro isn't the soulless monster who ruined his disguise and custom-tailored suit, but rather the soulless monster who does the same thing to his counterpart on the other side. That is to say, his teammate.

“Pyro!” he calls, decloaking.

“Mmrph?”

“Come here.”

Pyro does, their flamethrower extended and their head cocked to the side, evidently wondering if this is really Spy, or his counterpart. Spy takes out his knife and makes a stabbing motion, clearing it up.

“I need your help,” he says. This makes Pyro cock their head even further, so that it's practically touching their shoulder. “I lost my cigarette and lighter when I put myself out in the pool, and I would like to light another. Do you have --” 

And before he can ask Pyro for their omnipresent lighter, he's gotten a face (and chest, and legs) full of fire from their flamethrower. To be fair, it was probably faster than the lighter, and time is of the essence – the enemy is starting to respawn.

“ _Merci_ ,” he deadpans, wiping soot from his eyes.

“Drrnt mnntnn tt,” mumbles Pyro, skipping away.


	3. Scout & Heavy

“Aw, c'mon, you stupid --” Scout grumbles to himself as he fights with the roll of tape he's trying to wrap around his hands in preparation for today's fight. “Dammit, come here!”

A large shadow falls over him. “Having trouble, little Scout?”

“Nah, man, it's cool. I got this.” He tries to hold his hand up to show Heavy that he's done just fine, just as he always does, but he's taped his hands together. Somehow. “Maybe I don't got this.”

“Let me help. Spy, let me borrow knife.” Spy looks at him archly, definitely not interested in handing over his knife. Heavy looms over him until he sighs and hands it over with a long-suffering expression, then uses the balisong to cut the tape off of Scout's hands. “You are doing wrong. I will show you.”

“What, like you know what you're doing,” Scout scoffs.

“Da. Was boxer in Russia. Know how to tape hands for fight.”

“You used to box?” Scout looks at Heavy more closely than he ever had before. “Yeah, I can see that. You any good?”

“Yes. I was regional champion.” Heavy moves from wrapping Scout's wrist to his hand proper. “Very famous in village.” Medic rolls his eyes behind Heavy's back, clearly having heard all this many, many times. Scout smirks.

“That's pretty cool. I just used to punch guys, not fancy real boxing. My oldest brother taught me how to do this, but we usually did it for each other. Got to get used to doing it myself now.”

“Is not necessary. I will wrap hands for you.”

“You don't got to do that, big guy. I can do it.”

“You taped hands together.”

Scout turns bright red. “Hey, it's been a while since I tried doing this for myself. Like to see you try.”

Heavy finishes Scout's right hand and then tapes his own in a succession of quick movements.

“All right, fine, you got me.” He holds out his left hand. “Help me out, man.”

Heavy obliges, and then wraps his bare hand. “Now we match.”

“Yeah, we do.” Scout gives his hands a flex to test Heavy's wrappings. “Good job, man. Better than my brothers do, those lazy bums.” He picks up his bat. “Ready to kill tiny cowards?”

“Always.”

“That's the spirit,” he says, clanking his bat against his cleats. “Thanks for your help, man. I ain't going to say it every time or nothing, but I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome, baby man.”

“Shut up, fatso.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's a pair you'd like to see or a prompt you have for a specific pair, feel free to leave it in the comments!


	4. Medic & Sniper

Perhaps one of the strangest things at the base – and that was saying a lot, considering the people who lived there – was the knitwear. Considering the nine of them spent most of their time in various parts of the desert, they all owned a shocking assortment of woolen hats, scarves, gloves, sweaters, and socks. It was handy on the occasions they were shipped off to a base like Viaduct, but here at Dustbowl it was largely unnecessary.

This, however, did not stop either Medic or Sniper from continuing to make more, the two of them stashed away in the infirmary with needles and yarn.

“What are you making today, Herr Sniper?” Medic asks as he takes up his own knitting. He's making Pyro a long, multicoloured scarf. They have several such scarves already, but Pyro is fond of layers.

“Truckie said he unravelled one of his sweaters. Thought I'd make him a new one.” He takes his tools from the inside pocket of his vest, where they were making a very obvious bulge. The rest of the team doesn't know what the two most asocial members of the team do when they bar themselves in the Medic's lab, and Sniper wants to keep it that way.

“So,” Sniper says conversationally, after a moment of silence, “did you hear that next time we're on leave, Spy's heading up to Boston?”

Medic looks up from his work, over his glasses. “What about Scout?”

“They're both going. Together.”

“Ach, that is going to be a nightmare.” He smiles. “I only wish we could see it for ourselves.”

“It's going to be a right disaster,” Sniper agrees, continuing work on the sleeve of Engineer's sweater-to-be. “I hope he lets Scout drive that car of his.”

Medic snorts. “That will be the day. Herr Spy is more protective of his car than Heavy is of his sandviches.”

“Still, can you imagine the kid taking that flashy monster on the highway? Two hundred miles an hour, Spy screaming in the passenger seat like a bloody banshee.” There's a faraway look in his eye as he says it, clearly relishing the image.

“The only thing worse,” Medic says, “will be when they actually get there. Scout is still adjusting to the idea of Spy and his mother having an intimate relationship.”

“I don't think I'd be able to adjust to that. You see those pictures?”

“I did not.”

“Holy dooley, that would scar a better man than Scout, I'm telling you. I think Demo and Soldier still have them if you want to see.”

“ _Nein_ , I do not need to see scandalous photographs of my teammate's mother. Or of Spy.”

“He's still got his mask and gloves on in them.”

“I do not need the details, Sniper!”

“All right, all right,” Sniper says, holding up his hands, Engie's sweater crushed in one. “You hear anything new around?”

“You know I am sworn to secrecy. Doctor-patient confidentiality is a sacred tr--” He starts laughing. “One day I'll be able to say that with a straight face. But nothing out of the ordinary. Demoman needed another new liver – I gave him something bigger this time in hopes that I will be able to stop changing them more often than my gloves. Oh, and I caught him, Engineer, Pyro, and Soldier playing Monopoly in the other laboratory.”

Sniper laughs at that. “I bet Truckie was cleaning house.”

“I wouldn't know. Soldier and Demo were still arguing over who got to be the little cannon when I came in.”

“Then what happened, mate?”

“They asked me if I wanted to play.”

“And did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Yeah, I bet Operation's more your style.”

“I do not play children's games,” he sniffs.

“Except for that time you and Heavy played Pictionary,” Sniper says.

“That was not Pictionary! We were attempting to have a conversation that neither of us could express in English.”

“That's what you say, Doc, but those pictures told a very weird story if that's true.”

Flustered, Medic takes a look at Sniper's knitting, which is already taking the shape of a polka-dot sweater, done in team colours.

“You can't give that to Engie!” he says, grateful for the chance to change the subject.

Sniper looks nonplussed. “Why not? Something wrong with it?”

“Everything else we've made for him is _striped_! We can't give him a spotted sweater!”

“You're worse than someone's grandmother, you know that?” Sniper asks, slapping a hand to his face.

Sniper has made good progress on Engineer's sweater when he stashes it in his vest, recreating the bulge from earlier, and bids Medic good night. 

“Wednesday night, after dinner,” Medic reminds him, still forging ahead on Pyro's scarf.

He tips his hat. “'Til then, Doc.”


	5. Scout & Soldier

“Go, go, go! Ah, you dummy, you totally could have made that!” It's a rare afternoon off for the team, so Scout has taken advantage of both his time off and the empty living room to watch the Red Sox play the Yankees. It's not going well.

“I agree!” shouts a voice from behind the couch, causing Scout to fall off of it. “In baseball, as in war, you must take _risks_ to win! If you have to do something so cowardly as _steal_ a base, you _do it_!”

“Jesus, Soldier, you scared the crap out of me. Give a guy a little warning before you start yelling.” He climbs back onto the couch, turns back to the television set, thinks about it, and turns back around. “You like baseball?”

“It is the American pasttime, private! It is my _patriotic duty_ to watch baseball!”

“Yeah! Finally your whole 'home of the brave' schtick is doing something worthwhile. Sit down and watch with me – you're real lucky, the Sox are playing today.”

Soldier tips up his helmet to check the score. “They're losing. Are you cheering for the _loser_ , private?”

“Hey, don't talk about the Red Sox like that! Best team in the league! In the world, even!”

“I will only concede to that if they defeat their enemy! The Yankees must lose!”

“Yeah, that's it. Screw the Yankees, man.”

Scout watches the Sox bat in tense silence, something that Soldier has never seen on Scout. Usually he's chattering away a mile a minute, regardless of what's happening. He talks when he's happy, he talks when he's nervous, he talks when he's angry. But, as it turns out, he doesn't talk quite so much when he's watching baseball.

“Come on, come on, come on!” he mutters, still fixed to the screen like he's been glued there. “Yeah!” The Sox score their first run of the game. “Told you, best team.”

“They still have three runs to make up before I will agree to that, private!”

“They'll do it, shut up and watch.”

The two of them sit on the couch, watching, Scout leaning forward expectantly, Soldier with his helmet tilted back and arms crossed. The teams on the screen switch places, putting the Red Sox on the field and the Yankees at the bat.

“The fact that the batter has to leave his bat behind when he takes a base is a stupid rule,” Soldier says as the Yankees hit one out of the park.

“Yeah, man, can you imagine how much better this would be if they ran around cracking skulls too? And baseball is already, like, the best thing in the world, so that would be _crazy_.”

The two of them exchange a look. “You think any of them would go for it?”

“They'll do it or I'll see them court-martialled!”

“Gotta finish this game first, though,” Scout says, turning back to the screen.

The Red Sox pull it out in the seventh inning and coast to victory. Soldier immediately proclaims them the greatest team on the planet, with much agreement from Scout.

* * *

“All right, what's going on?” Engineer asks, as the nine of them stand outside the base. “If this is another one of your 'boot camps', Solly, I'm not sticking around.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Engie, it's only Wednesday! Boot camp is for Saturday mornings! No. We are going to play a real American game of baseball!”

This is, unsurprisingly, met by a lot of blank stares.

“Baseball,” Spy says flatly, flicking ash from his cigarette.

“Yeah, man, baseball!” Scout says, excitedly. “Me and Solly were watching the Red Sox kick some Yankee ass and decided we should have a game. And to make things even better, you get to hit each other with the bat.”

This piques the interest of several members of the team.

“Yeah, I thought you'd like that,” Scout says.

“Hold up a second, lad,” Demo says. “We've got nine men. The teams'll be uneven.”

“Someone will play ump,” Scout tells him, like it's obvious. “Doc, you want to do that?”

Medic looks a little taken aback. “ _Ja_ , fine, but I only know the basic rules of this game.”

“No big deal, man, just call strikes and stuff. All right, I'll captain one team, Solly will take the other. Flip for first pick?”

“Negatory! I will take first pick!”

“What?! Why?”

“I am the commanding officer here!”

“No, you ain't. We don't _have_ a 'commanding officer', you idiot.”

“I pick Demo.”

“Fine, then I'll take Pyro.”

“Sniper.”

“Spy.”

“Engie.”

“Heavy. We're taking first bat, since you guys got first pick.”

As it turns out, most of the team is not very good at baseball. Heavy is too slow to get to the bases in time, unless he really slams the ball away. Spy keeps having coughing fits. Demo can't hit the ball because of his depth perception issues and is too drunk to catch anything. Sniper hits the ball with deadly precision each time, but mostly fails to get anywhere in the field. Medic seems to be making up the rules as he goes along. And of course, everyone is falling victim to a bat to the face over and over again.

The score after what Scout and Soldier call “the first inning” and the others call “enough”, is 1-1, with only Scout and Soldier having managed to score anything.

“Yo, what the hell was that crap?” Scout asks his team, as Soldier bellows something prominently containing the word “maggots” at his.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Spy says, “was my first attempt at this ridiculous sport not up to your expectations?”

“No, it wasn't, Frenchie. We need to pull together and work harder, you get me?”

“Mmrph mmrph crrrd mm mrph mmrph mmph.”

“Yeah, or we could just hit them with the bat more. Good thinking, Pyro.”

“Mmmrph!”

“All right, second inning, we wail on everyone with the bat and actually try to score some points, got it?”

“Fall in, men!” Soldier shouts. “The inning begins now!”

The inning descends into madness in about three seconds. Before Scout can pitch the ball, Demo's slammed his bat into the side of his head. It appears that Team Soldier had the same rough idea as Team Scout. Everywhere one looks, there is a bat fight. Soon the one-on-one fights begin to merge together, until there's just a teeming mass of men and aluminum. Medic stands behind the ball of people, unsure what to do. He shrugs and grabs one of Scout's various bats and joins in.

After a few minutes of that, everyone is sufficiently tenderized and ready to stop. Everyone looks terrible. Both Medic and Engineer have lost the lenses to their eyewear, and everyone but Pyro is bruised and swollen beyond recognition, except that they're all still wearing their telltale uniforms.

Scout has come out relatively unharmed, as the resident expert in bat combat, only losing a tooth and gaining a black eye. Soldier has an impressive bruise on his jaw and a few broken fingers, but his helmet managed to protect him from the worst of it.

“You did good, son, real good,” he says, clapping Scout on the back, then wincing, because he did it with his broken fingers.

“Yeah, not bad on your part, either, old man. We should do this again sometime,” Scout suggests as the nine of them straggle into the infirmary. Everyone but Soldier groans loudly.

“You sorry bunch of scum-sucking _maggots_! A little baseball is nothing to run away from! Our next game is Friday, and I want to see you all there, or so help me I will plant my boot so far up your collective asses it'll come out of your _mouth_!” He turns to salute Scout. “Private.”

Scout grins, showing off the gap where one of his buck teeth used to be, and returns it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one kind of turned into an ensemble piece, whoops.
> 
> But some Scout & Soldier for Jumpp!


	6. Engineer & Spy

Engineer is pulled out of his work by the telltale sound of a Spy decloaking, audible even over the music he likes to put on when Demo's not around. Instinctively, he reaches for his heaviest wrench, but is stopped short of actually braining anyone by the realization that he's in the base, and any Spies about are going to be his teammate.

“What can I do for you, Spy?” he asks, continuing to fiddle with the delicate inner workings of a teleporter.

Spy takes a drag from his ever-present cigarette. “What makes you think that I need something from you?”

“You don't come down here for friendly chats. So get on with it or show yourself out.” Of course, Engineer is unaware that Spy occasionally spends time watching him work, invisibly. He does this with everyone on the team, considering it part of his job, but Engineer is his favourite. The others tend to do disturbing, embarrassing things, like dismembering corpses, flexing in front of the mirror, and singing showtunes in the shower, but Engineer's eccentricities are all palatable to Spy, since they mostly extend to getting a little too attached to his giant guns and that bizarre, wheezing laughter. Not that Spy can talk about strange laughs.

“I may require your assistance on a project,” he says, looking shiftier than usual as he says it. “My sappers are malfunctioning.”

“Your sappers? I've never laid hands on one of those properly, so I'm not sure how much help I'll be. I'm sure I can figure it out, though. Tell me what happened to them and slide them over here.”

Spy does as he's bid and puts the sappers on the table. He has four of them, enough for each of the machines an Engineer is allowed in the field. He's also put all of them through the laundry.

“This looks like a short-circuit,” Engineer says, having opened one up already. “And ...water damage? Spy, what the hell were you doing with these things, taking a bath?”

“I forgot to remove them from my suit when I laundered it.”

“You washed your sappers. By accident.”

He grits his teeth. “Yes.”

“How in god's name did you manage that, Spy? These aren't particularly small, and you're not that stupid.”

“It was after a run-in with the Sniper. I was not thinking clearly.”

There's that wheezing laughter. “Bastard got you with the jarate again, huh?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, it ain't nothing I can't fix, by the looks of things. Probably for the best; I don't want to think about _that_ requisition form.”

“Nor do I.”

“ _Dear Administrator,_ ” Engineer starts, imitating Spy's accent, “ _I put all of my electro-sappers through the wash like a complete moron because I was too busy being a big baby about jarate to check my pockets. Please send more. Love, Spy._ ”

“Yes, very droll.”

“I thought so.” He flips down his welder's mask and gets back to work fixing the damage Spy has wrought on his own equipment. “This here's going to take a while, you may as well go do something else.”

“I am content here,” Spy says, leaning in to watch Engineer work. 

“In that case, slap a pair of goggles on. I don't want to have to shoot you because you burn out your eyes watching me weld this thing.”

“Your concern is touching, labourer,” he says, but he does as he's told and puts on the goggles lying on one of the Engineer's other workbenches.

“And put out that cigarette. This is delicate work; I can't be getting ashes everywhere.”

“Any other rules?” he asks sardonically as he stubs out his cigarette.

He can't see it behind the mask, but Spy knows he's smiling when he talks. “Yeah, keep your mouth shut.”

Though he doesn't think that that rule would be strictly enforced, Spy does keep silent as Engineer works, simply leaning over his shoulder to watch, and occasionally wishing for a cigarette. Engineer has to examine and replace most of the innards, cobbling them together from the odds and ends lying around the lab, once in a while taking something from Demoman's side, leaving a small inventory for the other man.

“He doesn't mind me taking it, as long as I say what I'm taking,” Engineer explains on the way back over. 

The “finished” pile grows from one to three, and though Spy expected he would grow bored of watching Engineer do the same basic work over and over again, he doesn't. The Engineer works with impressive skill and finesse, and it's a joy to watch. Just like when Spy watches him tinkering with his other odds and ends.

“That should do it,” Engineer says, screwing the cover back on the sapper and placing it on top of its brethren. “Heck, they should even sap a little faster now. Don't tell anyone about that.”

“Much obliged, _mon ami_. If you are ever in need of _my_ skills, let me know.”

“I'll tell you if I need anyone stabbed in their sleep,” he says, wryly. Then, “feel free to stop by the lab more often. If you like.”

“I will keep it in mind. _Merci encore_ ,” he says, tucking the sappers back into his coat and walking away. He can hear the faint strains of the Engineer's music all the way back to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spy you creeper


	7. Pyro & Demoman

“Lad,” Demoman says to them one day, “or lass, or whatever ye are under that suit, I have a proposition for ye.”

“Mmrph?” Pyro says, looking at Demo skeptically. Not that Demo can tell, of course.

“Well, the way I see it, I'm probably the last of the DeGroot Highland Demolition Men, and that's a shame. So I was thinking, you like fires and stuff blowing up, you'd make a good adopted Demoman.”

“Mmph!”

“That's the spirit! I think. From this day on, you're now an honorary DeGroot.” He touches each of Pyro's shoulders with his bottle of scrumpy, as if dubbing a knight. “Probably should've done that with one of me actual swords. Too late now, mate.”

* * *

“Now, for your first lesson: black powder. Now listen carefully, and you'll get to set it all on fire.”

Pyro rolls their eyes behind the mask. They do enjoy things _other_ than fire. Not a great many things, and nothing _more_ than fire, but no one likes to be boiled down to one characteristic. 

“Black powder was invented in China, you know. I don't know when. A bloody long time ago, I would think. But that's not important. All that matters is that ye can make it to Highland Demolitions standards.”

Pyro flashes a thumbs-up, and Demo gets to work mixing the chemicals.

“You take a big chunk of potassium nitrate –“

“Mmrph mmch?”

“Ach, I don't know how much, lad! Lass! Whatever! Depends how much you want to blow something sky-high! Just grab some, all right?”

Pyro makes a pile of potassium nitrate.

“Good. Now that's the base. Then we add some charcoal – and don't ask me how much, I just eyeball it. And no jokes about the eye!”

He looks so pre-emptively angry at Pyro's unsaid eye jokes that they have to hold their hands up and mumble an “I won't!” to get him back to the gunpowder.

“And then some sulfur. A wee bit less than you used charcoal. Aye, that looks good.” He claps Pyro on the shoulder. “You're making a fine Demoman already. Soon you'll be out an eye and no one can question ye then!”

“Mmph!” Pyro squeaks, clapping their hands over the lenses of their mask.

“Ach, it's not so bad. Ye don't need much depth perception with that flamethrower of yours, do ye?”

“Mrph mmrph mmph! Mmph dnnt wnna mmrph mrph mmmph!”

“All right, maybe ye won't! You've got that mask on all the time anyway, might protect your eyes.”

“Dmmph?”

“Yes, lad. Lass. Whatever.”

“Cnn mmph mmk frrwrrks mmph mmph?”

“Fireworks?” He scratches at his beard. “I think I've got the supplies for that, yeah. We'll have to add some more chemicals to make the colours, though.”

Pyro claps their hands in delight and follows every one of Demo's garbled instructions until there's a sizeable pile of fireworks in the lab.

“Best take these outside before Engie comes back,” Demo says, hefting half of them into his arms and gesturing for Pyro to do the same.

Demo, with the skill that comes from both a heritage rich in explosives and years of practice, arranges the fireworks into a real display. Pyro stands at the ready with a lighter.

“Not yet, mate. We should ask the others if they want to watch this.”

“Mmph!” They scurry off, ready to round up all the others. 

They find Spy, Sniper, Soldier, and Scout playing cards in the living room. Pyro offers a quick description of the upcoming show and asks if they want to come.

“Yeah, I'm in,” Scout says. “If Spy wins another hand he'll have won all my clothes.” Spy smirks and lights another cigarette. He's wearing not only all of his suit, gloves, and mask, but a scarf and a hat as well.

“Mmrph wrr yrr plllng frr clths?”

“We didn't have anything else to bet, mushmouth!”

Pyro just shrugs and turns to the other three. “Cmmnng?”

“Fireworks are like the explosive tears of _freedom eagles_!” shouts Soldier. “Of course I will!”

Sniper shrugs. “Why not.”

“If all of these _sore losers_ are going, I will as well,” sighs Spy, looking quite put out at not being able to completely disrobe the other three.

“Soldier, put your pants on before we leave. C'mon, man.”

* * *

Engineer and Medic are playing chess in the infirmary while Heavy looks on when Pyro arrives, looking for them. “Frrwrrks!”

“Did you just say 'fireworks'?” Engie asks, slapping the chess clock and turning to look at Pyro.

“Mm-hmm. Dmmph nn mmm mmd thmm.”

“Aw, that's nice. Heck yeah, I'd love to come see.”

It comes as no surprise to Pyro that Engineer would say yes – the two of them are like peas in a very strange pod. Heavy is also easy to convince, and the three of them wear down the reluctant Medic.

Demo and the strip poker players are already outside when Pyro emerges with the other three, and after a few moments of shuffling around to find seats, Pyro produces their lighter once again and begins to light the fireworks in the pattern Demo gave them when he set them up.

They go up with a crackle and a hiss, exploding into impressive booms and great flashes of coloured light. Both Demo and Pyro sneak looks away from their work to check the expressions of their audience. Everyone looks suitably captivated. Soldier has removed his helmet and Engie his goggles, the light reflects off Medic and Sniper's glasses so brightly it's like watching the sky itself, and Scout is staring up in slack-jawed wonder.

Demo gives Pyro a thumbs-up. Pyro gives him a hug.

“Aye, you'll be a real Demoman soon, lad. Lass. Whatever.” They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, Demo's arm around Pyro, and watch the last of their work together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the more I write about Spy the more he comes off as some kind of pervert
> 
> I did not intend this


	8. Soldier & Medic

“C'mere, cupcake!” Soldier drawls, beckoning Medic over from where he's healing Pyro. He finishes that job, returns Pyro's thumbs-up, and runs over to Soldier, medi-gun at the ready. The two of them wade into the thick of battle.

“I realize this is not the best time,” Medic says, neatly sidestepping the enemy Soldier's rocket, “but I would like to speak to you about your ...nicknames.”

“What 'nicknames', pumpkin?” he shouts back, gibbing the enemy Demoman.

“That! You call me 'pumpkin' and 'sweetheart' and 'cupcake' and I find it ...disturbing.” More enemies are converging on their position, and Medic hits the switch for the Ubercharge.

“It is a long-standing military tradition to call each other names! Back when I served this glorious nation, people called me 'darling' and I _liked it_!” He destroys the Engineer's nest of buildings. “ _Screamin' Eagles!_ ”

“There is a Heavy behind us, switch positions. That does not explain why you call me such names, but no one else.”

“None of these worms is a military man! What kind of army has a _Scout_?” he asks, killing the aforementioned Scout. 

“Actually, I think --”

“That's right, none! But any good unit has a Medic! Who else will shove our guts back into our bodies and hand out sticks to bite down on as you cut off our gangrenous limbs with a dull, rusty shovel?!”

Medic raises an eyebrow. He keeps his Amputator in _excellent_ condition. “So you call me 'sally' because you respect me as a fellow officer?” he asks over the dying scream of the enemy Soldier.

“Correct, nancy!” He turns to look around for more enemies to kill, but the ground is littered with bloody chunks of what looks like most of, if not all of, the other team. “Good work, doc! You deserve a medal!”

He's caught off-guard. The Soldier is likely the least forth-coming with praise for his teammates. “Thank you. You did an excellent job as well.”

“Of course I did! I am this unit's commanding officer! I must set an _example_ for the rest of you maggots!”

“Back to normal, I see,” mutters Medic as he cleans chunks of the enemy Engineer off his glasses.

But when he returns to his lab after dinner that night, he finds a bottle cap attached to ribbon sitting on his desk, resting on top of a crudely-written note.

_Doc,_

_I was seeryos abut the medal. Good work today._

_Soldier_

He doesn't deign to wear it, of course, childish thing that it is, but it does hold pride of place on his bulletin board. Sometimes, when no one's around, he even gives it a small salute.

“Thank you, _darling_ ,” he mumbles to himself, chuckling.


	9. Heavy & Sniper

“Entire team is babies!” Heavy shouts, mowing down the aforementioned babies with his beloved minigun. With assistance from his teammates, soon there is a sizeable pile of enemies at their feet, and nothing to worry about for several minutes as they go through Respawn.

“Bloody bogan!” shouts Sniper from above, pushing a Spy corpse out the window, then heading downstairs to join the rest of the team.“Bastard was using a Dead Ringer,” he says by way of explanation.

“Tiny man did not hurt you?” Heavy asks.

“Nah, mate, I was wearing me Razorback. He got nothing but wood, and I took him down easy.” Scout sniggers at “wood”. “Shut up, wanker.”

“Sniper,” Heavy says, “I have been wondering. What are these insults you use?”

“What, like 'wanker'?”

“Yes. What is a wanker?”

“It's. Ah. Er. You know.” He makes the motion with his hand.

“Oh.” He pauses for a moment. “Are all your insults about touching yourself?”

“Good god, mate, of course not.”

“Yeah, some of them are about doin' it with other dudes,” Scout puts in.

“Shut up, Scout, don't make me tell you again. Nah, some of them's just Aussie stuff.”

“Like 'bogan'?”

“Yeah. You won't really find any out here, or in Russia, I imagine. Still comes out sometimes.” He drums his fingers against his leg. “Now I get to ask you, what's with all the 'babies' stuff?”

“Is easy insult. Babies weak, not good at anything. Hard to come up with better ones in English.”

Sniper grins. “But you've got all sorts of nasty ones in Russian?”

“ _Da_ , can get very cruel. But only other Heavy understand it, so must use English so everyone on little baby team know they are weak.”

“Come on, teach me some of your big bad Russkie insults, then,” Sniper says, elbowing his teammate a little to urge him on. “If I can pronounce them, that is.”

Heavy thinks about it, then decides _why not_ , and teaches Sniper a few simple threats and harsh words. Sniper has a strong accent, but he does a passable job, and it warms Heavy's heart to hear his shouts of “Иди в жопу!” coming from his perch as he picks off the other team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Иди в жопу!” is apparently Russian for "piss off" or "go to hell".
> 
> Also this one is short because I didn't have any good ideas for what these two would do together, haha.


	10. Heavy & Medic

They know each other for a week before the first battle. Before that, their relationship is cool and strained, the old tension between their two countries of origin making it difficult for them to get along – Medic remembers that they had shaken hands and smiled at each other when they met, until they had spoken and the accents had tipped them off.

But both of them take their work seriously and aren't willing to risk a job that lets them do what they love for money, so they put their differences aside to get ready to fight. The team stands behind the gate, Medic running back and forth, overhealing everyone to give them an advantage over the RED team, occasionally berating them to “stand still, _schweinhund_!”

“Come with me,” Heavy suggests when the Administrator calls five seconds to the start of the match. “Can protect you.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Da_. Come stand behind me.”

He does. “When the gate opens, I am going to charge you.”

“Is good.”

The gates slide open and Medic hits the switch on his medi-gun for the Ubercharge. He doesn't have to direct Heavy at all, which Medic finds surprising; he had kind of assumed the man was a formidable fighter but a weak tactician. But he immediately takes out the charging Soldier and Demo team, then the sentry gun, and then finishes off the Pyro and the Scout. The charge ends.

“Good work,” Medic says over the roar of battle, the manic grin he usually sports during any sufficiently bloody endeavour beginning to appear.

“Thank – SPY!” Without a further word, the two of them swap positions, and Heavy splatters the RED Spy attempting to backstab Medic against the nearest wall with his minigun.

He does find Heavy to be an excellent partner through the rest of the battle, his earlier insistence to stand behind him validated. Medic makes sure the rest of the team is not neglected, darting around with his medi-gun at the ready, but when everyone is at full health or beyond, he is planted firmly behind the Russian, using him as a human shield and helping him power through the RED defences. BLU captures the three points easily.

“You did well!” Heavy booms as the Administrator proclaims their victory. He sweeps Medic into a hug so powerful he finds himself lifted off the ground.

“ _Ja_ , everyone was spectacular, _put me down_!” He straightens his glasses and sweeps a hand down his coat. “ _Dummkopf._ ”

Heavy just smiles at him.

* * *

“Doctor?” Heavy asks, poking his head around the infirmary door. “Is time for dinner. Pyro cooked, thought you might like to come.” Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Pyro is the best cook out of all of them, and the nights they cook are always a big deal. Medic doesn't usually eat with the team, though; he's not fully comfortable with all the others, and they seem wary of him in return. Tonight is the first night since he's arrived, three months ago now, that anyone's asked him specifically to come down to the kitchen.

“I don't know, Herr Heavy,” he says, looking down at the file he's updating. “I don't think the others like to have me around.”

“Is because you make bonesaw face,” Heavy says.

“What face?”

“Bonesaw face! One that says 'I want to cut you open'.”

Medic frowns. “What face is that?”

Heavy does an impression of it. Medic considers.

“I suppose,” he admits.

“So come to dinner, don't make bonesaw face, will be fine.”

“All right,” he says, reluctantly. “But I am blaming you if it goes wrong.”

“Hey, doc,” says Engineer, when the two of them enter the kitchen. “Haven't seen you down here before.”

“Yes, Heavy asked me to come eat with everyone tonight.”

“Well, feel free to make a habit of it,” Engie says, smiling. Pyro shuffles over to the table to ladle out soup. They're even wearing a chef's hat.

“'Asked you'?” Scout says, from the other side of the table. “What, are you two on a date?”

“Scout, don't be like that,” Engineer admonishes him. But Scout being Scout, he keeps it up for the rest of dinner.

“Herr Scout,” Medic says, leaning in and using the bonesaw face, “you have not had your BLU-mandated physical yet. Come to my office tomorrow morning.”

Scout turns an amusing shade of puce. Heavy starts to laugh, followed by everyone else. Medic smiles at him, genuinely and not-terrifyingly.

* * *

“Don't tell me you actually brought that into the field,” Medic says, aghast.

“What?” Heavy asks, defensive. “Makes me fight better. Easier to kill enemy baby-men.”

“Heavy, it is just a sandwich.”

“ _Nyet_. Is sandwich you made, from your fridge. Is special.”

Medic raises an eyebrow. “It's just ham, _mein Freund_. It shouldn't be special unless I --” He has an idea. “Let me see that.”

He takes the sandwich and charges it with his medi-gun. It glows blue for a second, and then it fades.

“I believe _now_ it may be special.”

A scuffle with the RED Pyro ends with the Pyro dead on the ground and the two of them on fire. Medic puts Heavy out easily with the beam of his gun, but Medic is still attempting to beat the flames rapidly consuming his coat out. 

“Here,” Heavy says, tossing him the sandwich in a last-ditch attempt. Apparently, Medic's experiment was a complete success, and consuming it puts the fire out just as well as the medi-gun would.

“I told you,” Heavy says.

“ _Ja, ja,_ you were right,” Medic says, rolling his eyes.

The sandwich becomes a regular staple on the battlefield after that, even gaining a capital S and the letter V from the others imitating their accents, turning the sandwich into the Sandvich. They start stashing them around the battlefield for Heavy's easy access, though this means the REDs are soon in on it, opening the medpacks to find a ham sandwich stuffed in with the medical supplies. Soon they're charging their own. It becomes something of a game for the Scouts to try and beat Sandviches out of Heavies – which means Medic is always on guard duty when they stop for a Sandvich break.

“Ach, get away from him, you imbecile,” he says, chasing the RED Scout off with his bonesaw. He got one stab in, but the boy is still up and running, and Medic can't keep up.

“Too slow, doc!” he shouts from around the next corner, but he sounds winded and wheezy when he says it, so Medic feels secure in having greviously wounded him.

“Thank you, doctor!” Heavy exclaims when Medic comes back, his bloody saw dangling from his hand dejectedly. “For Sandvich and for chasing away little Scout.”

“He's still alive,” Medic warns.

“We get him later,” Heavy says, patting him on the shoulder. “We always do. Ready, doctor?”

“ _Ja_ ,” says Medic, taking up his medi-gun once more.

* * *

About halfway back from where he met the BLU Heavy and Medic, the RED Scout stops to check his wound and alert the team.

“Fellas, we got a problem,” he says into his earpiece. “Their Heavy and their Medic are coming up, and if the Medic wasn't charged before, he is now, 'cause the bastard just stabbed me with his Ubersaw.”

“Come see me,” RED Medic tells him, “then we must come up with a strategy.”

“I'm on my --” Scout's voice is cut off by the loud sound of a minigun whirring and a scream of agony. 

“Told you we would get him, doctor,” says a faint voice, and then the same one, louder: “Time to run, cowards!” Then the clatter of Scout's earpiece falling to the floor and two sets of footsteps, moving quickly towards RED's fortifications.

The next few seconds pass a little like this:

“Charge me, doctor!”

“ _Jawohl_!”

“Dispenser down!”

“Aaaaaaagh!”

“Run home to mama!”

“Sentry down!”

“More rubble, less trouble!”

“Aaaaaaagh!”

“Cry some more!”

“Aaaaaaagh!”

“You are now without doctor! My doctor still alive!”

“Aaaaaaagh!”

“ _Oktoberfeeeeeeest!_ ”

_Alert! The enemy has captured our intelligence! We have captured the enemy intelligence._

Then, shortly thereafter:

_Success! We have captured the enemy intelligence._

The two of them stop to catch their breaths in the relative safety of the BLU intelligence room. Engineer waves from behind his sentry.

“We did it, _Kamerad_!” Medic says, finally lowering his medi-gun.

Heavy throws a friendly arm around his shoulders and pulls him in for a modified hug. “I love this doctor!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Jumpp! And probably a bunch of other people, because I know everyone digs these two.


	11. Scout & Pyro

Scout's bored. The fighting's over for the day, and he can't find anyone to hang out with to pass the time. Demo and Engie kicked him out of the kitchen where they're working on dinner, Heavy and Medic are reading silently in the infirmary, and Soldier, Spy, and Sniper are all boarded up in their respective rooms (or vans). Maybe he'll watch TV.

When he enters the common area, it turns out the television is already in use. Pyro's on the floor in front of it, legs crossed and elbows on their knees. It looks like they're staring intently at the screen, but it always looks like Pyro's staring intently with that mask on, so who knows if they actually are.

“Mmmph,” they say in greeting. 

Scout vaults over the back of the couch and sits down. “Hey. Whatcha watching?”

Pyro shrugs. “Ntt srr. Wttnng frr dnnrr.”

“Yeah, man, me too. Though I don't think we should get excited, 'cause Demo and Engie are cooking today, and you know what that means.”

“Mmph. Thhnnk thh'lrrnnt th'lssnn.”

“God, I hope so. I don't wanna eat no chili haggis again.”

Pyro laughs, and Scout appreciates that it's the real one and not the one they let out when someone feels their axe in their skull. That laugh is downright _terrifying_.

“So, Py, what're you up to after dinner?” Scout asks, on a whim. Like everyone but Engineer, he's a little scared of Pyro and hasn't spent much time with them. But everyone else is busy, and maybe it'll turn out to be fun if Scout keeps the matches and lighters away from them.

Pyro shrugs again. “Dnnt nn. Wtt frr _Strr Trrk_.”

“Oh yeah, it's Friday, ain't it,” he says, fiddling with a loose thread on the couch. On the TV schedule Engineer drew up after a few too many arguments, the only slot Pyro asked for was ten o'clock on Friday nights to watch _Star Trek_. Which they do, every week, without fail. Scout's personal theory is they like it so much because they're an alien too, but Engineer told him that was “a damn fool thing to say” and Medic called him a _dummkopf_ , so he stopped mentioning it to people. “Can I watch it with you?”

“Ff y'wnnt,” Pyro says. They turn away from the screen, finally, to look at Scout. He feels like they're judging his sincerity, so he smiles and tries to look like he means it. Which, he realizes, he kind of does.

* * *

Dinner turns out to just be chicken, and it actually tastes normal. Not as good as anything his mother makes, of course, but it's edible, which is more than anyone can say about the chili haggis.

“Stop lookin' at it like that,” Engineer says when he puts it on the table. “I know last time didn't go so well, but you don't gotta look so surprised.”

Pyro comes up to him after dinner, clutching the ragged box that contains the game of snakes and ladders. Scout's not sure where it even came from, since the only game that existed when they moved onto the base was checkers, but over time they've accumulated multiple distractions. Scout kind of assumes it's Spy, since he's usually nowhere to be found, but he also has a hard time picturing Spy coming up with this shit.

He tells Pyro this while they're setting up the board (Scout will take a bat to anyone who says anything about it, but he's bored and Pyro's the only one of the bunch who might be around his own age and it's dull being around all these old guys all the time), and they just laugh again. “Mmmbee.”

They play like a child, clapping in glee when they get a ladder and groaning in despair when they get a snake. It's actually kind of cute, Scout thinks, and then considers taking that bat to himself for thinking so. Pyro wins the game, and the next one, but Scout takes the next three. It passes the time pretty well, and after Scout wins his last game, Pyro grabs his wrist and pulls him up.

“ _Strr Trrk_!”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm comin', stop pullin' me.”

Pyro takes their seat on the floor again, and this time Scout chooses to join them there, legs splayed out in front of him.

“Who's that?” he asks when the first character comes on screen.

“Cptnn Krrk.”

“He's in charge?”

“Yyhh.”

“That's Mr. Spock, right?”

“Yyhh! Nnd thht's Uhrrh nnd Bnns.”

“Haha, who's that guy? He kinda sounds like Demo.”

“Sctty.”

“They named the Scottish guy 'Scotty'? That's fuckin' terrible.” More laughter comes out of Pyro's air filter.

Scout doesn't shut up through the whole episode – the show's pretty silly, and Pyro laughs at all his jokes. It turns out to be a pretty fun night, considering he spent it watching a show for geeks with someone whose face he's never seen.

“I'm goin' to bed, Py. Remind me about this next week, all right?”

Pyro gives him a thumbs-up. “Mmph.”

* * *

By the time they get to the next base, the two of them have struck up a solid friendship. Pyro's even taken to wearing a Red Sox cap over their gasmask after Scout brought it back for them on a visit home.

“Yo, Sol, is this shit almost done?” Scout asks, staring out the window longingly. It's snowing out and he's pre-bundled in the knitted winterwear Medic and Sniper keep making everyone and trying to pass off as “company-issued”. Pyro mumbles their agreement from under three rainbow-striped scarves.

“You sissies! This is an important mission briefing!”

“No it ain't. I'm going to run around and beat guys with my bat, Pyro's going to set dudes on fire, can we _go_?”

“Just go,” Engineer says, waving a hand. “They're not going to listen anyway, Sol.”

An hour later, there are snow versions of the entire team standing outside the base, several snow angels, and the two of them are building snow forts.

“Erectin' a sentry,” Scout calls in his best impression of Engie's accent. 

“Dsspnnsrr grrn pp!”

The two of them are practically howling with laughter when Engineer sticks his head out the window to tell them to shut up. “And I don't sound like that, neither!”

Scout soon learns that Pyro can reflect snowballs with their flamethrower's compression blast. “No fair,” he says, hitting one at them with his bat. It comes back a moment later, significantly less ball-shaped. The air becomes thick with flying snow piles.

They trudge inside shortly thereafter, snow falling off them with every step. Scout peels off his multiple layers of sweaters, while Pyro tries to untangle themself from all the scarves. Then they get to work starting a fire. The whole team has learned that it's pointless to try and keep Pyro from starting fires, but it is possible to contain them, which is why there's a fireplace in the engineering/demolitions lab. Engie and Demo have apparently taken off for the day, or Soldier's still holding everyone hostage, so it's just the two of them and Scout's bag of contraband marshmallows. Pyro likes theirs burnt, Scout knows, so he makes sure to cook them properly on the single stick he found lying around.

“Trrn arrnd,” Pyro reminds him, keeping Scout from seeing them when they lift their mask to eat them.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm not peekin'.”

The two of them sit back-to-back, eating the entire bag of marshmallows in front of the fire. It reminds Scout a little of doing similar things with his brothers as a kid, stealing their mom's cookies in the middle of the night and eating them in one of the bedrooms the eight of them had to share. He wonders if Pyro has any brothers or sisters, but he knows from experience asking will get him nothing but a shrug and a blank stare from that mask of theirs.

He wakes up the next morning with his head lolling back on Pyro's shoulder and a crick in his neck.


	12. Soldier & Engineer

Engineer wakes up, groaning and rubbing his head. He doesn't remember dying, and his head is killing him, which could only mean one thing. But he's distracted from his inventory of body parts by a loud voice.

“Engie!” Soldier shouts. “What are you doing back in Respawn?”

“I got picked off by the Sniper. What are _you_ doing here?”

“I was killed by the Heavy and the Demo! _Like a man_!” He pauses. “Maybe you wouldn't get shot in the head if you didn't wear a bright yellow bucket on it!”

“You wear a helmet, too, Sol,” he says, frowning. He starts walking out of the Respawn room and back to the front. He's going to have to rebuild his whole nest now, and that means he needs to get back into position as quickly as possible.

“Yes, but this is the helmet of a military man! Yours is a _civilian's_ hat!”

“Well, yeah, it's the hardhat I used to wear in the oil fields. I've never even been in the army.”

Soldier sneers. “That explains why you're so soft! And tiny!”

Engineer stands straighter. It doesn't make him very much taller. “I'm just short! It's got nothin' to do with whether I been in the army or not.”

“I grew six inches when I was in Poland, and that was living off of _ration packets_! The service changes a man, and that includes growing!”

“Weren't you in your thirties by then?”

“ _Irrelevant_!”

“So you were shorter than me before.” By now they've gotten near the front lines, and Engineer is setting up a dispenser. Soldier stands by with his rocket launcher at the ready.

“I did not say that! I did not give you permission to ask me a question!”

Engie gives him a lopsided grin and keeps working on the dispenser. His smile fades when he notices the other team's Sniper in a window nearby, and he shows Soldier with a jerk of his gloved hand.

Soldier squints up at the window, and then Engineer feels a weight suddenly lifted off his head. “Hey, I need that!” Then an even heavier weight is settled on him – when he takes it off to look, he realizes he's wearing Soldier's oversized helmet.

“What're you doin', soldier boy?”

“I am protecting my unit! I will wear this fluorescent kangaroo target in order to save your life! Protect my helmet, private – I have had it for twenty-five years and killed thirty-eight Nazis with it!” He rocket-jumps away, leaving Engineer dumbfounded and trying to build a sentry with an overlarge helmet drooping over his eyes.

* * *

“I have returned!” Soldier shouts, landing next to Engineer's nest of buildings in a rather large explosion. If his teammates' weapons weren't harmless to him and his creations, Engie'd have beaten him silly with the flat of his wrench. “And I brought you a gift!”

“What?” Engineer asks, trying to concentrate on repairing his sentry and Soldier's voice at the same time. Soldier tosses something at Engie's feet, and when the enemy fire has temporarily stopped, Engie holsters his wrench in order to look at it. He drops it immediately upon finding out what it is.

“Jesus Christ, Sol, why would you bring me this?”

“He disrespected my soldiers! Bringing you his head was the least I could do!”

The head vanishes, presumably to respawn with the rest of the Sniper's body. “You didn't do anything _else_ to him, didja?”

“That's a negatory! He died a clean, shovel-related death!”

“And he didn't shoot you, neither.”

“No he did not! It would take a better man than that camping Sheila to take _me_ down!”

“So the hardhat's not that dangerous, after all.”

“It is still non-regulation!”

“Look around, Soldier, there ain't such thing as a regulation uniform.” It's true; the only stipulation given to the mercenaries when they were hired was that their shirt had to be in team colours. They're also supposed to wear their class badges on their shoulders, but the rules are enforced so lackadaisically that several of them don't bother.

“ _Irrelevant_! I will provide you with a proper helmet!”

“This is a proper helmet! It's for construction, and that's my job! 'Sides, yours is so big I can't see what I'm doing.”

“Wrong! You are a soldier in this man's army and you will be outfitted properly on the field!”

Engineer sighs. “Just swap helmets again, Sol. I think that Sniper's learned his lesson.”

* * *

Soldier drops in, literally, later, with another one of his helmets tucked under his arm.

“Soldier, I told you this ain't gonna fit, and I need to be able to see.”

He doesn't say anything, instead lifting the helmet from Engie's head and replacing it with his own. The one he brought is more beaten and dented than the one Soldier wears himself, but it also sits above Engineer's goggle line, allowing him to see.

“I stuffed it with rags,” Soldier says, by way of explanation. Engineer takes it off to look. “It should stay in place now, since you need your precious eyes to work.”

Engie chuckles. “Thanks, Sol,” he says, putting it back on his head. “Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea for me to wear something less ...bright.”

“No problem, Engie! Now I'm going to show that Sniper who's boss!”

“Say hi for me,” Engineer says as Soldier blasts off once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> literal helmet party


	13. Sniper & Spy

Sniper wakes up, gets dressed, and heads outside to greet the day, only to have his day-greeting interrupted by the smell of smoke and a knife against his throat.

“ _Bonjour, mon ami,_ ” Spy says, letting him go. “Looks like I win again.”

“Only because you hang around me van while I'm sleeping,” Sniper grumbles back. “I'd get you all the bloody time if I did that.”

“You don't know where I sleep,” Spy smirks.

That is, in fact, true. Spy has a room in the base, just like the rest of the team, but he never seems to use it. The door remains open most of the time, and there's nothing in the room but the furniture provided by the company. Sometimes he locks himself inside, but more often than not he just cloaks after a match and vanishes.

“I can find out,” Sniper says, re-entering the van for coffee.

“Shall we put a wager on that?” Spy asks, following him in.

“Isn't this already a wager?”

“I never pass up an opportunity to win more of your money,” Spy says, blowing out a stream of smoke. Sniper has to give him that one; of their weekly stealth-offs, he's won six of the last eight, and Spy continues to contest the one where he sneezed in the middle of a fake backstab.

“All right, you're on,” Sniper says, sounding more confident than he feels. He has literally no idea where Spy sleeps, or even if he does so. Maybe he drinks even more coffee than Sniper and just stays awake, keeping tabs on everyone. While most of the others remain unaware of Spy's habit of cloaking himself and watching them go about their days, Sniper is all too aware when he's being followed.

“I look forward to it. Oh, but before I leave, what is the score for this week?”

“Twenty-six to nine,” Sniper says, feeling the urge to punch Spy right in his masked face. He only asks to rile him up, not because he's actually forgotten.

“A tip for you, bushman,” he says, turning invisible, “don't wear such heavy shoes when you try to sneak up on someone, especially if that person is me.”

Sniper throws some jarate at him. The resulting noises of disgust are enough to make him feel better about his losing streak.

* * *

“Do any of you know where Spy sleeps?” Sniper asks the rest of the team at breakfast.

Medic raises an eyebrow. “And why do you want to know that?”

“Is for that contest,” Heavy says, nodding sagely. “Sniper is cheating.”

“Hey, we didn't make any rules says I can't ask for help. Besides, this is a different bet.”

“I ain't never seen him going to bed,” Scout puts in. “I bet that frog don't even own pajamas.”

“He's gotta sleep sometime, Scout,” says Engineer. “Though I ain't speculatin' on his pajama situation. Europeans, you know.”

“What? Oh, gross, hardhat, I don't need to be thinkin' about that.”

“It's your own fault for makin' me think about it, son.”

“My personal theory,” Medic starts, thankfully interrupting a conversation about naked Spy, “is that he has someplace in town to sleep.”

“Seems like a waste of money to be doin' that when he's got a room right here,” Demo says, mouth full of eggs.

“Well, you know Herr Spy. He is a very ...finicky man. I would not be surprised if he considered the base beneath him.”

“But his car does not move,” Heavy says. “How would he get to town without car?”

Everyone thinks about it. It's hard to imagine Spy walking miles across the New Mexico desert just to get accommodations in Teufort, of all places.

“Maybe he really _doesn't_ sleep,” Sniper mumbles into his coffee cup.

* * *

He's still trying to think about places Spy could be sleeping while sniping. He's working on autopilot, blowing the heads off anyone who crosses his field of vision, but his brain is miles away, pondering the possibilities. _Does he sleep on the roof? In the intelligence room? ...On the stairs?_ None of those places have shown any indications of a tenant – Sniper's on the roof right now, after all, and there's nothing up here but gravel. Later he pokes around the intelligence room and doesn't find anything there either. He supposes Spy might sleep in his clothes and his cloak, but it's hard to imagine him wearing his suits day after day, and he's not finding any spares stashed around.

_Where the fuck is he sleeping?_

“You seem distracted, _monsieur_ Sniper,” says Spy, uncloaking behind him. He wheels around to make sure it's the right Spy, jabbing his kukri through him. “Yes, it is me. Are you attempting to puzzle out where I spend my nights? It is so amusing to watch your brain at work. Such struggle.”

“Shut up.”

“Did I touch a nerve, _mon ami_?”

“No, I'm just tryin' to do my job here, and it's hard to do with you blowing smoke in my face. What kind of Spy walks around smokin', anyway?”

“It doesn't seem to help you find me,” he says, that infuriating smirk back on his face. “I need to get back to behind enemy lines and you need to get back to five miles away, unless you plan to crouch on top of the desk and shoot from there.”

“Bugger off.”

“I just told you I was leaving, bushman. And for the record, I am not sleeping in the intelligence room.”

Spy leaves without even cloaking or disguising.

“Piss.”

* * *

“I bet he sleeps under one of our beds,” Scout says from the floor in front of the TV. Pyro nods in agreement next to him.

“Whose bed?” Heavy asks from the couch, where he's wedging Medic and Sniper against the opposite armrest.

“I dunno, maybe he switches around so he don't get caught.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he's a creepy fucker, that's why.”

Everyone says that's a stupid idea, but report back to Sniper the next morning that there was nothing and no one under their beds.

* * *

Sniper spends the next few nights hunting up and down the base with a broom handle, jabbing it into corners and nooks and crannies, looking for Spy. He gets the feeling that French bastard is watching him from somewhere and laughing.

Tired of searching, Sniper retires out to his van, ready to sleep. But then, he has a sudden realization: he hasn't checked _outside_ the base. “Spy,” he says, “if you're in this van, I am going to stab you with this broom handle and then with my kukri.”

Nothing. He swings the broom around a few times, making contact with several of his possessions, but not with Spy. Frustrated, he heads back outside the van and slumps down into his lawn chair. He's not sure how long he spends out there, but after some time there's a familiar snort.

“Spy?”

Another one.

“Spy!”

Another one. They're coming slowly and rhythmically – not like his mocking laugh, but like ...snoring. He's around here somewhere, Sniper knows now. He stops talking, going into what Scout calls “bush mode”, crouching down and taking his broom handle up like it's his kukri. The snoring continues, and he follows it around. And around. And around. It's leading him in circles around the van.

“Where the fuck are you?” he asks, under his breath. Then he's struck by a sudden realization, looking _up_. He goes inside the van and pounds on the ceiling with the broom handle.

There's the thump of a body hitting the ground. “ _Sacre bleu!_ ”

Sniper goes back outside, this time with his kukri in hand, to find Spy lying on the ground in a heap after he rolled off the top of the camper in surprise. “Found ya.”

Spy lifts his hands in surrender. “You did, bushman. Good work.” He reaches into his suit pocket and hands up a small wad of bills. Sniper pockets them.

“Now find somewhere else to sleep. And stop sneakin' up on me before I've had me coffee.”


	14. Soldier & Demoman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i should warn you guys that there's some racism in this chapter. but not from anyone important. and they all get what's coming to them in the end.
> 
> ...this fic gets weirder every time i add to it.

There are only two things worse than a drunk Demoman around the base. The first is when he ropes someone else into drinking _with_ him, and the second is when that person is Soldier. It tends to get even more explosive than his lessons with Pyro, for one thing, and that's without mentioning the other shenanigans.

Like the time they took their weekend off and went to Las Vegas.

“Demo!” Soldier had said, pointing, “what are your plans for this furlough?”

“You know me, mate,” he had replied, shaking his bottle of vodka (he was out of scrumpy, for once). “I don't expect to remember this weekend at all.”

“Unacceptable, sergeant!” Demo was the only member of the team fortunate enough to have received a rank higher than “private” in Soldier's imaginary military. “We are going to take this time off and use it properly!”

“Ach, no, the last time ye said that I had to do push-ups and shite.”

“Training has been cancelled this weekend. We are going to take real leave and go to Vegas!”

“Vegas?” Demo had said, his interest piqued. “Ye do know that's the one with the gambling and the showgirls, right?”

“And that is precisely why we are going!”

“All right, laddie! Let me pack a bag.” Then he had stopped for a moment and thought about it. “How are we planning on getting from here to there?”

“I have commandeered a vehicle for the purposes of enjoying this weekend,” Soldier had answered, holding up a set of car keys.

And that is how, roughly twenty minutes later, the two of them were speeding away from the base in a northwesterly direction. (“Oi,” Sniper said at approximately the same time as they were leaving, “does that sound like me van to you?” “Nah,” Scout had said, “got any threes?”)

Las Vegas turned out to be exactly as promised: horrifically flashy, with a distinct undertone of seediness. It was beautiful. They found and checked into a hotel, complete with “knowing” wink from the clerk, and proceeded to hit the Strip.

At the first casino, things are mostly fine, though everyone keeps cutting the pair of them a wide berth. Demo shoots Soldier a look. Soldier shrugs in response. They clean out the blackjack table and the bar and leave.

The second is similar, though people step up to giving them dirty looks. Demo scowls at a woman he catches doing so and watches her scurry away with satisfaction. There's more gambling and more drinking, and they walk out of the place thoroughly hammered.

It's when they get to the third casino that things start to make sense, even through the drunken fog.

“You can't come in here, sir,” said the man at the door, a skinny, nervous thing.

“What?” Demo had asked. “Is it because I'm drunk? Because I can assure you, lad, I'm usually drunker than this by _breakfast_.”

“Huh? No! It's because you're, you know...”

“Scottish?” Soldier had offered.

“Is it because of me eyepatch? Ye can search it if ye want.”

“No, no, um. This is a _segregated establishment_ , if you know what I mean.”

Soldier lifted his helmet at that, staring the man down. The doorman quailed under the force of his stare. “Are you saying he can't come in because of the colour of his _skin_?”

“Um. Yes. I mean, if it were up to _me_ I'd let you in, but. Company policy.”

“Demo! This man is a racist!” Soldier sounded genuinely surprised.

“Aye, I noticed.”

“That's not very American of you, son! For generations our African-American brothers have been _bleeding in the dirt_ for you sissies! And my friend here is the best of them all!”

“To be fair, Soldier, I'm not an American.”

“You're _close enough_! An honorary American!” He turned back to the doorman, who was still shaking in fright. “Son, if I were you, I would get out of the way!”

“What? Are you going inside? I can't let you in, I'll get fired!”

“Of course we're not, laddie! I know when I'm not wanted. But we've got plans for your fine building that you don't want to be a part of.”

The man looked between the two very serious, very _drunk_ mercenaries, weighed his options, and sped away as fast as his legs would carry him.

Five minutes later, the two of them were armed and in uniform ( _of course the git brought all this_ , Demo thought), and, contrary to Demo's earlier admonishment, inside the casino.

“Oi, you lot!” Demo called to the patrons, lifting his sticky-bomb launcher, “this building is scheduled for demolition! Starting in five minutes, so you best get a move on!”

This was met by a lot of blank stares. Soldier fired a warning shot into the ceiling, knocking down a chandelier. “ _GET MOVING!_ ”

This managed to impress upon them the seriousness of the situation, and there was a steady stream of customers out the door. Demo begun to lay sticky bombs all over the building while Soldier punched holes out of it with his rocket launcher. “Looks like she's ready to come down,” Demo yelled after a few short minutes.

“Sir, yes, sir!” Soldier replied, and the two of them joined the throng of confused ex-patrons on the sidewalk, where Demo finished the job with a press of a detonator. The neon-laden building imploded spectacularly. Someone in the crowd started to cry.

“All right, who was in charge of this unit?” Soldier bellowed, looking them over from under his helmet. A man stepped forward.

“That would be me, and I have already notified the authorities!”

“Ooh, the police, I'm so _scared_ ,” Demo laughed, taking a swig out of a stolen bottle of champagne. “Did ye not see what I just did to your big building there?”

The man turned white, then red. “You, you, you...--”

“If you're saying what I think you're saying, laddie,” Demo warned him, “better not. It's what got ye in this mess in the first place.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. “Jane,” Demo said, casually, as if they weren't about to go on the run from the cops in Sniper's stolen camper van, “I think we should go.”

Soldier saluted him. “You first.” Demo laid two sticky bombs on the sidewalk and jumped away, followed shortly by a second explosion and Soldier landing next to him with a thump.

“Good thing we parked the van so close.”

* * *

They're greeted back at the base by the other seven mercenaries. Engineer has a newspaper crushed in his hand.

“Nice trip?” he says, conversationally, as the two of them climb out of Sniper's van.

“We won a fair amount at blackjack,” Demo says. “And yes, Pyro, we brought ye back a t-shirt.” He throws the garment to Pyro, who immediately puts it on over their fireproof suit with a happy noise.

“Anything else interesting happen?”

“We blew up a casino!” Soldier says. Demo glares at him.

“Any particular _reason_ you went around destroyin' Vegas, or did you just think it was a good idea at the time?”

“Of course there was a bloody reason,” Demo starts, but Soldier cuts him off with “Racism, private!” which just muddles the issue.

“Wait, you blew it up because you're a racist?” Scout asks, clearly puzzled. “Dude, you were on vacation with _Demo_.”

“No, they blew it up because _the casino_ was racist, idiot,” says Medic, who's grasped the situation much faster.

“Aye,” Demo agrees. “It was a right shame, too. Looked like a nice place.”

“Oh. Well, that settles things, then,” says Engie, much more cheerfully. “The paper didn't say nothing about them treating you like that, so we just thought you were being stupid.”

“No way, private!” Then, “it was in the news?”

“Yeah, have a look. We ended up with all the copies, since the company decided to smooth things over for y'all.”

 _LOCAL ESTABLISHMENT BLOWN SKY-HIGH BY INSANE, POSSIBLY INEBRIATED TOURISTS_ , reads the headline. It's accompanied by two pictures, one of the casino before the two of them got to it, and one of the two of them standing in front of the rubble, drunkenly leaning on each other. Said photograph is labelled "unknown drunken terrorists".

“Good picture of you, lad.”

Both of them frame a copy of the article for their rooms on base, and Demo sends one to his mother for someone to read to her, with a letter explaining himself (though she'd probably prefer it was for no reason other than he wanted to, Demo realizes).

“Nice work,” Sniper says, after everyone's patted the two of them on the back and gone off to continue their days. “But next time, don't use me van. I've already gotten three tickets in the post.”


	15. Heavy & Spy

“Good day, fat man,” Spy says cheerily as he enters the kitchen. “How are you today?”

Heavy frowns. Spy has nicknames for everyone, it seems -- “bushman”, “labourer”, “ _docteur_ ” -- and to say Heavy is not fond of this habit would be a gross underestimation. He hates it. And it is only his team spirit that keeps him from tearing Spy to itty bitty pieces for calling him “fat man” all the time.

“Fine,” he says shortly, turning back to his book and his sandwich (he doesn't give it the capital letter, since he made this one himself).

“Very impressive work this morning,” Spy carries on, making himself a cup of tea. “How many of them did you get in a row?”

“Seven.”

“ _Très bien_ , fat man! Too bad you did not see that Spy behind you, or you may have gotten them all.”

He eyes Spy curiously, not sure what he's up to with his backhanded compliments and out-of-character chattiness. “Yes, is shame.”

“But then again, we Spies are so much quicker than you. Perhaps it is to be expected.”

“Do not need to be quick. Only need to be strong.”

“You could be both,” Spy suggests, simultaneously drinking his tea and smoking a cigarette, which Heavy thinks must taste disgusting, “if you stopped eating so much.”

Heavy shrugs. “Food is good. Have lived too many years without.”

“We have all lived hard times, fat man. It does not mean you have to eat every _sandvich_ on the planet,” he says, a mocking version of Medic's accent coming out on the “sandwich”.

“Maybe not. But does not mean I can't.” He takes a bite of the sandwich, as if to prove his point. Spy watches him, slightly disgusted, and taps some ash into his saucer. “Have you ever eaten sandwich, little Spy? Do you even have to eat?”

“Of course I have had sandwiches before, you imbecile.”

“No, mean have you ever had _Sandvich_?”

“No, I leave those for the rest of you. I have no desire to eat something that has been stewing in a medkit all day.”

“You are going to eat Sandvich, and then you will not call me 'fat man' anymore,” Heavy tells him, complete with stern finger-point. “Because is too delicious.”

“So,” Spy says, in obvious disbelief, “your logic here is that you will find the _docteur_ , have him make me a Sandvich, and then I will be so amazed by it that I will give up mocking you?”

“ _Da._ ”

“You are even stupider than you look.”

* * *

“Doctor!” Heavy calls, walking into Medic's office. “Need your help with plan.”

“What would that be?” he asks, hardly looking up from ...whatever squishy red thing it is that he's cutting up.

Heavy gives him a quick explanation. Medic raises an eyebrow. “You need me to make a Sandvich for Spy?”

“Yes. But must be most delicious Sandvich for plan to work.”

He rolls his eyes. “An extra-delicious Sandvich, yes. You could have just said 'Medic, I would like a Sandvich', you know.”

“Needed you to know was important.”

“All the Sandviches I make are important,” he says, sounding affronted. “They are instruments of healing, and the team seem to appreciate them. Especially you.”

Heavy frowns. “Are you calling me fat, too?”

“What? _Nein_ , of course not. You are talking to the man who does your physicals, you know. I would know if you were fat.”

He gives Medic an affectionate pat on the head. “ _Spasibo_ , Doctor. Remember, best Sandvich for Spy.”

“ _Ja, ja_.” He goes back to his chopping.

* * *

“Spy!” he bellows, later that evening. The rest of the team is eating dinner, which means that Spy is sitting at the end of the table smoking. “Have brought you Sandvich.” He lays the plate he took from Medic's office a few minutes before in front of him.

“Were you _serious_ about that, fat man?”

“Yes,” he says, crossing his arms and looming over Spy in his most threatening possible manner. 

“Very well,” Spy concedes, “I will eat this Sandvich.”

“And then you will not call me 'fat man'.”

“Only if I find it suitably impressive,” he corrects, then adds another “fat man” for good measure.

The team leans in to watch – the sight of Spy actually eating something is the strangest thing they've seen since being introduced to the Ubercharge. “Would you _please_ ,” Spy says, but no one moves. He sighs and takes a bite of the Sandvich.

It's only because he's had literal decades of training in hiding his emotions that Spy does not react to this. The Sandvich is the single most delicious thing he's ever eaten – no, that _anyone_ has ever eaten. And he could have been eating them on a regular basis, but considered himself above such banality. If Spy were a lesser man, he may have cried.

But he is not a lesser man. “It is palatable,” is all he says.

“Frickin' liar,” Scout accuses. “You loved it, man. Sandviches are _the bomb_.”

“It's just a sandwich, Scout.”

“I'm going to have to agree with the boy,” says Engineer. “The Sandvich is a thing of beauty.”

“The only thing besides ribs a real man is allowed to eat!” continues Soldier.

“It's just a sandwich,” Spy says again.

“Nrr tt's ntt,” Pyro says, crossing their arms.

“It's just a sandwich,” he repeats, but he sounds less sure this time.

“If I didn't know better – and I do, because I checked – I'd think it had magical properties,” says Demoman.

“ _It's just a sandwich!_ ” Spy shouts, running out of the kitchen so quickly that he knocks over the chair he was sitting in.

“Though it seems he took the Sandvich with him,” Medic says, looking at Spy's plate. The bitten half of the Sandvich Spy carried out of the room comes sailing back in to splatter against the wall.

“IT'S JUST A SANDWICH!”

Despite his protests, however, he does cease to refer to Heavy as “fat man”, and was once caught on film by Scout eating one in the middle of battle. Heavy still has the photograph, a very unflattering image showing Spy in the middle of chewing, just in case he needs it.

One can never be sure, with Spy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything i write is STUPID


	16. Demoman & Sniper

“I don't know why I let you drag me out here,” Sniper says, grumpily, as the two of them weave their way through the brush towards the lake.

“Because I promised you an adventure,” Demo says, much more cheerfully, “and enough alcohol to fill the back of that van of yours.”

“I should have asked for that payment up front,” Sniper grumbles, as a branch hits him in the face with a resounding _thwack_. 

“No can do, lad. Ye need to be sober for this.”

“Are _you_?”

“What? Of course not! I said _ye_ have to be sober. Didn't say anything about me.” As if to underscore the statement, he takes a swig of whatever's in today's bottle. Sniper just rolls his eyes. “You couldn't handle it! The North Shore Monster is a fearsome beastie, with the body of a crocodile and the head of a _horse_!”

“The head of a horse,” he says, disbelievingly, as they finally come through the trees and reach the shore of the Great Salt Lake. 

“Aye, the head of a horse!” Demo exclaims, beginning to set up the tent. He's not doing a very good job, but Sniper's not about to criticize, considering when he lived in the Outback the closest thing to a shelter he had was his hat.

“You know I used to hunt crocodiles with the heads of crocodiles, right?”

“Of course I know that! 'S why I brought you! But your regular, run-of-the-mill crocodile doesn't have magical abilities!”

“Why would a horse-headed crocodile have magical powers?”

“How do ye think it got a horse head?!” Demo asks, like this is obvious.

“...Interesting cross-species buggery?”

“Och, just go set up the equipment I gave ye.”

Sniper throws his hands in the air and takes the backpack of scanners and monitors that Engineer packed for the two of them closer to the edge of the water. Luckily Truckie was kind enough to leave a set of instructions on how to put up this nonsense, because otherwise Sniper would have no idea. By the time he's done, there's a small web of wires, beeping machines, and flashing screens. It's then he realizes that Engie neglected to include instructions on how to _read_ the thing.

“Demo,” Sniper says, “do you know how to work this bloody thing? There's no instructions.”

“Instructions? What do ye think this is, a bookcase? It's not a bookcase!”

“Who needs instructions on how to work a bookcase?”

“I don't know, lad, but those Swedish bastards sent me a pack anyway. Nae, this is state-of-the-art cryptozoological instrumentation! The way to read it is a secret only known by the fraternity of monster hunters!”

“And Engineer.”

“...Aye, and Engineer.”

“If you were going to teach him how to do it anyway, why didn't you bring him instead?”

Demo looks offended by the notion. “Engie's a good man and sharp as a tack, but he's not a hunter, like you and me. It would be like bringing a sheep to do a wolf's job!”

Sniper tosses his bag into the droopy, lopsided tent. “I'm telling Truckie you called him a sheep.”

“And I'm going to tell him what you do with sheep,” Demo says, tossing a huge net into the lake and hooking it up to the web of cords.

“I told you about that in confidence, mate!”

“Aye, and I bet you're regretting that decision.”

* * *

They're awakened late that night by a frantic beeping from Demo's “cryptozoological instrumentation”.

“Whazzat?” Sniper says, sitting up.

“'S the bloody...thing! Monster!” Demo attempts to scramble up and towards the edge of the lake, but he only succeeds in getting tangled in the fabric of the tent, bringing it down upon both their heads.

“Ahh! Jesus, Demo, what are you doing?”

“Tryin' to get to the lake! Where's the end of this thing?!” He's feeling around, looking for the corner of the tent to free the two of them from its confines.

“I don't know, _but that's not it_!”

“Sorry, lad.”

“Oi, that's my face! How could you still be this drunk, mate?”

Demo finally finds the edge of the tent and pulls them out of it. “When am I not?”

By the time they get to the water, the beeping has stopped, and the both of them look completely dishevelled from sleep and the misadventure with the tent. Demo stoops down to check the readings from the machines.

“Och, no, I missed her!”

“How can you tell?” Sniper mutters. The small screens are showing long strings of numbers and symbols he can't make heads or tails of. 

“These numbers are coordinates, lad. And judging by how many there are, she's a big one! The other numbers are the time – see how it's basically right now?”

“And these whatsits?”

“Direction travelling, currents, wind speed, all kinds of information!”

“That's ...pretty impressive.”

“Aye. But for now, we need to move this all to the west if we want to catch her.”

“Can't it wait until morning?”

“You craven! Help me move this.”

He does.

* * *

Most of the next day is devoted to what Demo calls “observation”, but what Sniper calls “taking a lot of naps and getting sloshed”. The machines are silent, and the two of them are perched on an empty stretch of shoreline, waiting for something to happen.

“Should we be moving this thing?” Sniper asks, sometime in the afternoon.

“'S fine,” Demo mumbles from where he's half-asleep on the sand. Sniper shrugs and puts his hat back over his face.

The beeping recommences at night, again. The two of them snap awake, again. The tent falls down, again.

But they manage to roll out from under it a lot faster this time, and the machines are still going off by the time they get to them. 

“What do we do now?” Sniper asks.

“We catch her!” Demo shouts, starting to throw the explosives he brought into the water. “Get your bloody gun, or bow, or whatever it is ye brought!”

It takes most of the firepower Demo brought, but finally a well-placed grenade blasts something out of the water. Without hesitation, Sniper puts one through its skull.

It floats on top of the water, anticlimactically, a sheen of blood on the water. It's not as big as Demo made it out to be – about the size of a regular crocodile, though with the aforementioned horse head. 

“Some magical creature,” Sniper says. Demo gives him a one-eyed glare.

* * *

“Yo, how was your big monster-hunting trip?” Scout asks as soon as the van pulls up, windows rolled down. Sniper wonders if this is a coincidence, or if Scout was actually waiting for them to get back.

Demo, sitting in the passenger seat, tosses the monster's severed head at him. Scout, naturally, catches it, then has a delayed reaction and starts screaming shrilly.

“It was good, lad,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering, yes, the North Shore Monster is a real legend, and the sheep thing comes straight from an in-character interview done by Sniper's voice actor, which can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DkSXpe6iaPY) if you haven't watched it. It's pretty funny. I especially like the bit about the van full of prostitutes.


	17. Engineer & Medic

“Hey, doc,” Engineer says, letting himself into the infirmary. “Got a minute?”

“Yes, come in,” he says, flicking a hand towards an unoccupied chair. There's some minor blood spatter. “What would you like to talk to me about?”

“Well, y'all know I had that meeting with the boss recently,” he starts. “I can't tell you about most of it, but he did give me some of my grandaddy's blueprints, which I can tell you about. Or at least I'm going to tell you about them, whether I'm supposed to or not.” He grins, throwing a thin folder of paperwork onto the cleanest corner of the table.

“'The Gunslinger'?” Medic asks, looking at the cover. He wipes his hands clean and picks it up. “May I?”

“Be my guest,” Engineer says, nodding.

The Gunslinger is a weapon, unsurprisingly. The surprising part is that it's also a prosthetic – a permanent replacement for his right hand. “You want my opinion on this?”

Engineer shrugs. “Not really. Mostly I just wanted to ask you if you'd help me install the thing.”

“By 'install' I assume you mean --” 

“Chop off my hand and attach this thing in its stead,” he finishes, pulling a robotic hand out of the ammunitions pouch on his belt and handing it to Medic. It comes in two parts, the hand proper, and a socket- _cum_ -brace for the wrist. The wrist section is fairly large, but lightweight, and the hand is a marvel of engineering, all graceful lines and perfectly-articulated joints.

“Beautiful,” he says, quietly, as he studies it. “And you are certain that it will work?” He stuns himself a little with the question. Since when did he start _caring_ if the results of his experiments were positive?

“It'll be better than new. Stronger, faster, and capable of all kinds of work that a real hand ain't.”

Medic nods, listening, and then, “Let me see your hand.”

Engie obliges, peeling off his ever-present single work glove, and letting Medic poke and prod his way around the extremity for several minutes.

“If you'll leave the blueprints with me to study, I believe I can attach this for you.”

“All yours, doc. See you in a few days, then.”

* * *

Medic is not an engineer, obviously, but the Gunslinger has been designed with that in mind. The attachments are all colour-coded and neatly diagrammed out in the blueprints. _Bone here, muscle here, wires go here._ By Friday night, when Engie comes back to his office, he has it memorized.

“Are you ready, Herr Engineer?” he asks, unable to keep the expectant smile off his face. It's not every day he gets _asked_ to mutilate someone.

“Heck yeah!” Engie says, hopping up onto the table. Everyone tends to think of him as the sanest of the nine of them, Medic knows, but he can also tell that behind that genial exterior lies something very much like himself – an insatiable curiosity and unbridled enthusiasm crossed with a disregard for social expectations or even human life. He's always glad to see that side of Engineer come out.

Medic prepares the operating theatre, rolling his tray of instruments over to the table, turning on the ceiling-mounted medi-gun, and shooing away the birds. Engineer takes off his overshirt and glove, laying his hand down on the table.

“See ya, righty,” he says, chuckling.

“I am about to begin,” he announces after Engie's been sufficiently drugged not to bleed out or go into shock. He's still fairly conscious, though, just the way Medic likes it.

“Mmkay, doc,” he says, slurring his words a little. He's still smiling even as Medic starts making incisions into the flesh of his arm.

* * *

“The operation was a complete success!” Medic says as Engineer comes out of his drug-induced haze. “I've always wanted to say that.”

Engie sits up, still a little unsteady, and raises his right hand to eye level. He twists his wrist back and forth. He bends his fingers. He pulls a cord located on the socket and watches with open delight as his new hand spins around like a saw blade.

“Thanks, doc,” he says, pulling his glove back over it. Until he's completely at ease with his new metal hand, it's going to remain under wraps.

“You'll need to come and see me every night until it's fully healed,” Medic warns. “Otherwise you might have to start building an entire arm instead of just a hand.”

“Will do.”

* * *

“So, you got any interesting experiments on the go?” Engie asks him as Medic examines his arm for signs of infection or rejection of the artificial limb. Sadly, there are none.

“Not particularly,” Medic says. “Not since the others took back their Spy's head.”

Engineer laughs at that. “What were you doing with that, anyway?”

“Oh, this and that. Besides the obvious – you know, discovering the best way to keep a severed head alive – I was mostly using him as a place to store pens.”

More laughter. “I'll be sure to make a crack about that the next time I'm caving his skull in.”

Now Medic's laughing too. “Good. He always fights so much worse when he's angry.”

“You noticed that too? I remember I made that joke about cheese and the Eiffel Tower to him and after he respawned he tried to get up to backstab me without even disguising. The sentry pounded him against the wall before he got within twenty feet!”

“ _Ja,_ my favourite was the time I dominated him and he kept giving his position away by screaming as he ran in. I shot him in the throat with my crossbow just to shut him up!”

“The only thing that story's missing is a Jarate splashin'.”

Medic thinks about it. “I'm not sure if it happened, but I'll be sure to include that in further retellings.”

* * *

“You complete _bastard_!” The enemy Spy shouts, running at Engineer with his knife out. He's caught Engie between sentry nests, so he pulls out his shotgun instead of letting the turret do the job for him.

But before the Spy can get into range, there's the sound of footsteps, and then some maniacal laughter. The Spy continues to insult Engineer and Medic even as blood starts pouring out of his mouth.

“Ah, put in a pen in it, son,” Engie says as the Spy bleeds out from a bonesaw wound. “Thanks, doc. Looks like I owe you another one.”

“The stabbing is its own reward,” Medic says, wiping down the bonesaw. Then, offhandly, he adds, “I think your new hand will be ready for work tomorrow, as long as nothing happens to it today.”

“Nothing's going to happen to this little beauty,” he says. “It would take a tank running over it to even break a joint.”

“Tomorrow, then. I cannot wait!”

“Me neither,” Engineer says, smirking at the dead Spy lying at their feet.

* * *

“Holy shit, dude, is _that_ what you've had under there this whole time?” Scout asks, gaping at Engineer's uncovered right hand.

“Nah, this is a new addition,” he says, flexing his fingers. “Designed by my grandfather, improved and built by me, installed by the doc over there.”

“You _asked_ him to do that? Or did he just go crazy and cut your hand off without you noticing?”

Engie smiles. “I asked him.”

“Jeez, the two of you are like a couple of mad scientists out of a bad movie, I swear to god.”

Scout's terror of Engineer's metal hand does not dissipate over time, Medic notices. And for good reason. He watches in awe, and no small amount of glee, as Engie smashes in the faces of any Spy stupid enough to try sapping his machines, crushes the opposing Pyro's windpipe with the smallest movement of his fingers, and utterly destroys a Sniper foolish enough to get distracted.

“ _Yee-haw!_ ” he shouts, gore dripping from his fingers as they slow down from their high-velocity spin.

“Having fun?” Medic asks, passing by behind Soldier.

Engineer gives him a manic grin, the effect of which is only heightened by the blood that's streaked across the opaque lenses of his goggles. “You have no idea, son.”

Medic gives him a sharp smile of his own, holding up his nearly-full Ubersaw. “Oh, I think I might.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I have so many Terrible Mad Science feelings about these two -- and thanks to "[Expiration Date](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GLlLQ3LmZWU&channel=teamfortress)" it's kind of canon! Actually, it kind of made me feel like all of this hilarity could be canon, judging by what Scout and Spy apparently do in their off-time together...


	18. Soldier & Pyro

_Boom. Shhh. Boom. Shhh. Boom. Shhh._

“That's three in a row, private! Thirty points.”

Pyro just giggles and claps their hands.

“All right, what's going on out here?”

“Hi, Engie! We have just invented a new sport!” Soldier proclaims.

“Do I even want to ask?”

“It is called 'Rocket Blast' and it will become the new American pasttime!”

“Yrrh!” Pyro says, airblasting again for emphasis.

Engineer just raises an eyebrow.

“The rules are simple: one person marks out a target and launches the rockets, and the second person has to blast them back!” He fires a rocket at Pyro, who immediately hits it back through the hoop set up on the roof of the base. “Ten points!”

Engie backs away, slowly.

“Frrr rrgrnn!” Pyro says, shaking their flamethrower. This time the rocket veers off-course and misses the hoop.

“Ten points for me, mumbles! You know what that means!”

Pyro groans and does ten push-ups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried expanding this one, but I felt it worked pretty well as a short. Hope you're not disappointed, haha.
> 
> Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to stare at my update download progress bar and/or look up the new additions on the wiki.


	19. Scout & Spy

“Are you ready?” Spy asks, leaning against his ridiculous red sports car, smoking.

“Yeah, man, I got everything,” Scout replies, brandishing his small suitcase. Spy pops the trunk and lets him put it inside.

“Then let us go.”

The two of them are heading up to Boston from New Mexico in order to visit Scout's mother. This is widely considered the worst decision to have been made around the base since the time Sniper tried keeping jarate in the kitchen.

(“MEDIC!”

“What?”

“Something is wrong with apple juice!”

“Let me see th-- _mein Gott!_ ”)

But Scout doesn't have a car, and Spy does, and they're going to the same place – even the two of them can see that going together is the obvious solution.

Spy starts up the car, Scout leans out the passenger side window and waves goodbye to the rest of the team, and the two of them drive off in a north-easterly direction.

* * *

“I'm bored.”

“Scout, we have been on the road for less than an hour.”

“Don't matter, I'm still bored.”

“You're lucky I prepared for such an obvious scenario.” Spy reaches into the backseat (“Yo, keep your eyes on the road!”), roots around, and comes back with something.

“Here.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Spy just smiles. Scout takes the offered colouring book and crayons with a scowl.

* * *

“Yo, we should get dinner.”

“I would agree, if there were anything but _greasy spoons_ around.”

“Dude, we're on the highway. You ain't going to find something fancy around here. Just pick one. It's not like you eat anyway.”

Spy sighs. “Of course I eat. I just choose to do it in private.”

“Why?”

“I am a man of mystery,” he says, smirking. “Ah, there is something on this exit. If I get food poisoning, I will never forgive you.”

“You say that about everything.” Scout puts on a fake French accent. “'Scout, if you touch my suit, I will never forgive you.' 'Scout, if you smoke any of my cigarettes, I will never forgive you.' 'Scout, if you crash my car into another wall, I will never forgive you.'”

“You're lucky I did not kill you for that last one,” Spy says, darkly.

“What, you totally did!”

“Then you are lucky I did not tamper with Respawn first.”

* * *

The waitress at the truck stop gives them an odd look, two men pulling up in a shiny roadster, one a skinny boy in half a pair of headphones, and the other in a balaclava. At first she thinks it might be another robbery, but the man just asks to be shown to a table.

“How's your salad?” Scout asks after they get their food.

“Tasteless, but I did not expect better from such an establishment.”

“Burgers are pretty good. You should have gotten one of these.”

Spy raises an eyebrow. “No thank you.”

“Come on, you can have a piece of mine. And you should take that as a sign of friendship, because I don't share.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No!”

“Come on.”

“ _No_.”

“ _Come ooooooon!_ ”

“Fine, give me a piece of that meaty abomination.”

Scout hands it over. Spy eats it as delicately as possible.

“So? Pretty good, huh?”

“I will admit nothing.”

“You loved it. It's like the Sandvich all over again.”

“Bring that up again and I will never forgive you.”

* * *

“It is getting late,” Spy says, several hours after dinner. “We should find somewhere to sleep for the night.”

“Or you could let me drive. I'm not tired.”

Spy looks at him with the sort of expression that only someone who has made this mistake before can give. “I think not. I have no desire to spend our vacation time recovering from the inevitable crash, rather than --”

“Ugh, man, don't finish that sentence. I don't even want to think about what you and my ma are going to be up to this week.”

“I was going to say _spending time with her_ , but if you'd prefer the details...”

“Nope! Nuh-uh, no way!” Scout exclaims, hands clapped over his ears. Spy smirks and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “You're the worst.”

* * *

The motel is about as classy as the truck stop, but this doesn't stop it from only having one room to offer the two of them. It at least has two beds, but that is the extent of its charms.

“Oh man, does this mean I get to see you in _pajamas_ , too?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“I wish I had my camera.”

Spy, already down to his shirtsleeves, points at him. “That device has been confiscated until further notice.”

“I knew you took it!”

“ _Mais oui_. Who else?”

“My ma bought me that on my last visit! You need to give it back to me, right now.”

“I know that. And you will get it back when you stop taking pictures in order to extort things from myself and the rest of the team.”

Scout groans. “Man, I'm never going to get that back.”

“Most likely not.” Spy vanishes into the bathroom to change into his pajamas.

“Are you seriously going to sleep in that?” Scout asks, laughing, when he returns.

“Yes.”

“In your mask.”

“Yes.”

“And your gloves.”

“Yes.”

“You're a weird freakin' guy.”

* * *

“How the hell did you find a French radio station out here?” Scout asks at some point in the Midwest. The two of them are listening to the radio, which is playing some pleasant, if somewhat dull, music that Scout can't make heads or tails of. Because it's in French.

“My radio can pick up weaker signals than most. This is actually a Canadian station in Montreal; I would have preferred proper Parisian, but beggars cannot be choosers.”

“There's a difference?” Scout asks, inching his hand towards the radio dial.

“Oh, yes. Canadian French lacks the distinctive _class_ of Parisian French – too much exposure to English.” Spy slaps Scout's hand away.

“Spy, you use like, Spanish and Italian words when you talk _all the time_. I don't think you get to judge.”

“I am merely exercising my vocabularies.”

“Uh-huh.”

Spy rolls his eyes, and Scout seizes the opportunity to change the station. He finds something playing modern rock and roll and settles in to listen. Spy thinks, momentarily, about opening the door and shoving Scout out onto the highway at sixty miles an hour, then reconsiders.

“You have one hour, and then we are returning to my station.”

* * *

Scout's mother is first alerted to their presence by the sound of loud, slightly muffled music coming in from the street.

“What the hell is that?” she asks herself, going to the window. She's just in time to see a familiar red car pull into the driveway, slightly hapharzardly.

“Hey, ma!” shouts her son, getting out from the driver's side. He gives her a hug.

“Hey, baby! But where's --” Before she can ask, Scout's opening the passenger door to reveal Spy still frozen in shock, gripping the dashboard.

“He let me drive,” is all Scout says in explanation.

“ _Mon dieu,_ ” Spy says, weakly.

“How was your trip? You two didn't fight the whole time, did you?”

“Nah, it was actually ...pretty fun.”

“Oh, good. You know how I like to see my men getting along.”

Now it's Scout's turn to roll his eyes. “Don't say things like that, ma, it's gross.” His mother just pats him on the head.

“Get him out of the car, already. Dinner's ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sad I couldn't come up with a way to work "SEDUCE ME!" into this.


	20. Demoman & Heavy

Cooking is one of the duties that the team shares entirely, unlike, say, vacuuming, which is always Scout's job, or cleaning the bathroom, which is always Sniper's. For obvious reasons. Pyro is the undisputed master of the kitchen, and everyone looks forward to their days at the stove, but everyone has to take their turn, usually with a partner.

“Och, don't worry, lad, I'm a dab hand in the kitchen,” Demo says, waving a bottle of rum around as he says it. “I'm a chemist, you know, and cooking is nothing but chemistry!” He leaves out the part where he has been banned from cooking with three other members of the team already for, as Medic had put it, “attempted gastronomical homicide”.

“ _Da_ , am ready,” Heavy says, putting on an apron.

Demo eyes it suspiciously until Heavy gives him the “Fists of Steel” look.

“Wasn't goin' to say anything about your lovely pinafore,” he mumbles, taking the ingredients out of the fridge.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, mate.” He drops everything unceremoniously on the counter. It's the necessary components to make a roast and side dishes; nothing overly fancy. “All right, I'll start on the meat, if you want to get these potatoes.”

“Is good.”

Everything starts normally enough. Demo unwraps the meat, places it in a pan, and begins to season it. Of course, he's not really paying attention to _what_ he's seasoning it with, but he figures between the two of them they can scare any complainers into submission if they want to moan about this meat's peculiar cinnamon taste. Heavy is peeling potatoes with a small knife. Normal.

It does not last.

“Oh no!” Heavy exclaims, a particularly slippery potato escaping from his large hands and flying across the room. It hits Demo square in the face, and he drops the pan of beef he was attempting to put into the oven. “Is meat okay?”

“Aye, a little extra seasoning never hurt anyone,” Demo says, shoving it back in the pan and turning the oven on, unaware of the concept known as “pre-heating”. With the improperly-flavoured roast cooking, Demo turns to help with the vegetables.

Again, things proceed as normal for a few minutes, but soon turn insane.

“Oh, this does not look good,” Demo says, staring down at the carrots he had been chopping. 

“What is problem?”

“I think one of those bits of carrot is actually a bit of one of me fingers.” He holds up his hand to prove that, indeed, one of his fingers has been chopped in half.

“MEDIC!”

After Medic leaves, grumbling about _dummkopfs_ drinking on kitchen duty, they get back to work.

“All right, potatoes are boiling, the roast is roasting, and I've taken all the bits of me hand out of the carrots. Things are looking up.”

Heavy nods.

“Do ye know how long we're supposed to leave this thing?”

Heavy shrugs. “No.”

“Eh, a few hours should do it, I would think,” Demo says. He sets a timer.

“Should we ask someone?”

“No, it's fine. If ye need me, I'll be having a nap.”

Heavy expects him to walk out of the room and go to his bedroom or the couch, but instead he just slumps over at the dinner table and starts snoring. At least he's not leaving things _completely_ unattended. Heavy waits by the oven for the first twenty minutes, but with only the ticking of the timer and the strange smell of the roasting meat to keep him company, he winds up wandering off.

“Do you smell something shonky?” Sniper asks him. Heavy's ended up watching TV with him and Scout.

“Yeah, smells like breakfast cereal and hamburgers,” Scout agrees. “If they were on fire.”

“ _Oh no!_ ” Heavy shouts again, heading for the kitchen. When he gets there, he finds Pyro standing in the middle of the kitchen, wearing their fire brigade helmet and brandishing their flamethrower.

“Yrrr dnnrr wss nn frrr,” they say, nonchalantly.

“Did you save food?”

“Yrrs.” Heavy sweeps Pyro into a hug. “Rr dnnt wnnt trr, trrr.”

“Is good you did. Otherwise, would have to break tiny neck. Now go set fire in Engineer lab.”

Pyro gives him a thumbs-up and strolls out of the room, dragging the flamethrower.

“Wha' happened?” Demo says, drowsily. Apparently the commotion did not wake him, but Heavy talking did.

“Dinner set on fire. Saved by little Pyro.”

“Ach, that's a good lad. Well, let's see how she looks, then.”

“Pyro?”

“No, the roast, ye numpty! Take it out of the oven.”

“ _OH NO_!”

“Put the mitts on first!”

Heavy puts on the oven mitts and scoops the roast back into the pan, again. “Is very ...black.”

“Aye,” Demo says, taking a drink, “we've burnt it.”

“What now?”

“We do things the Scottish way.” He pulls out another pan and puts it on the stove.

* * *

“Uh, what is it that we're eating, here?” Engineer asks, eyeing dinner suspiciously. It appears to be a lot of shapeless mounds of beige.

Scout takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “Huh, it even _tastes_ like burnt cereal and hamburgers. And french fries.”

“And floor,” Sniper adds.

“It's a traditional Scottish dish!” Demo proclaims, smacking his bottle of rum against the table. “Roast beef, potatoes, and carrots!”

“You took all the finger out, right, Demo?” Medic asks.

“Of course I took the finger out!”

“But why is it that colour?” Engineer continues, gracefully overlooking the finger comment.

“Was fried,” Heavy explains.

“Why'd you go and do a thing like that?”

“I said it was Scottish, didn't I?”

The two of them are never allowed in the kitchen together again.


	21. Scout & Medic

“Archimedes?” Medic calls, looking for his pet. He has no idea where the bird has gone; he's checked through all the rooms the two of them usually frequent, and he hasn't done any surgery today, so it seems unlikely that he's been sewn into someone's organs again. “Archimedes?”

He looks in the kitchen. No doves. He looks in the bathroom. No doves. He looks in the common area. No – wait a minute. There, sitting on Scout's shoulder as if this is the most normal thing in the world, is Archimedes.

“There you are!” he says, walking over. He expects the bird to jump ship from Scout immediately, but he stays put, small claws buried in the fabric of Scout's shirt.

“Hey, doc. You looking for me or something?”

“No, I was looking for Archimedes.”

“Oh, good. I get nervous when you look for me. Nothing good ever comes from that. Nah, Archie just came out to sit with me for a while. I'd have said something if I knew you were looking.”

“Archie,” Medic says, flatly.

“Yeah, I figured if I had a name like 'Archimedes' I'd want a nickname, so. Archie.”

Medic decides it will be easier on everyone if he drops the subject. “What are you two doing, anyway?”

“We're watching the Yankees game,” he says, pointing at the television. Archimedes flaps down to sit on his outstretched finger, causing Scout to frown. “I need that, man. Sit here.” He transfers the bird back to his shoulder.

“You hate the Yankees,” says Medic.

“Yeah, but I need to keep tabs on how they're doing. Know your enemy and all that.”

Medic rolls his eyes. “Sports,” he says to the ceiling, as if it will agree with his confusion.

Archimedes takes this opportunity to squawk a few times, ruffling his feathers. Scout jumps in to comfort him before Medic can get a hand in. “What's the matter, boy?” He looks at the screen. “Oh, shit, the Yankees scored again!”

“Have you been indoctrinating my bird into a baseball fan?!” Medic exclaims.

Scout shrugs. “He comes to sit with me while I'm watching the games, it's not my fault. He's got good taste, though – he always gets angry when whoever's playing the Sox gets a run.”

“And you have in no way been encouraging this, I imagine?”

“I might've given him some birdseed whenever the Sox score. But I didn't teach him to get all pissy about them losing, honest.”

“Hmph,” says Medic.

* * *

He loses track of Archimedes again, several days later. This time he heads straight for the common room, but neither Scout nor his dove are in there. Instead, he finds them outside, where Scout is in the middle of target practice with his pistol. Archimedes is perched on one of his discarded bats, cooing.

“Oh, hey, doc,” Scout says when he notices Medic approaching. “Looking for Archie again?”

“Yes, I was, but I'm not surprised to find him here.”

“Yeah, he came out your window when I started shooting, so I dragged out this bat for him to sit on, since it's, y'know, wood like a tree.”

“Very thoughtful, Scout,” Medic says, raising an eyebrow.

* * *

He walks outside the base's front door to find Scout sitting on the stoop, feeding chunks of his lunchtime Sandvich to Archimedes.

“Ah, jeez, we're busted now,” he says to the bird when he sees Medic. “Sorry for feeding Archie. I know you're all uptight about birdseed and shit.”

“I am not uptight about birdseed!”

Scout gives him a flat look, then puts on a bad German accent and gesticulates wildly. “'Scout, vat haff I told you about feeding ze birds?! _Zey are only supposed to haff ze birdseed!_ '”

“I do not sound like that.”

“You do, a little. But I gotta work on your accent a little more.”

“You are an idiot, Scout. And give me back my bird.”

* * *

“I'm goin' for a run outside,” Scout says, days later.

“Have fun,” Medic tells him, not really paying attention.

“I was gonna ask if Archie wanted to come.”

At the sound of his name, the dove perks up and flies down to sit on Scout's shoulder. Medic frowns.

“It appears as though he does.”

“You don't mind, do you, doc?”

Medic huffs. “Of course not! I don't care if my birds want to spend time with you!”

“Are you sure about that? Because every time Archie does something with me you look like someone put a lemon in your Sandvich.”

“I do not!”

“You kinda do. It's cool if you want me to back off, man. They're your birds. I'm just like, fun uncle Scout.”

“'Fun uncle Scout'.”

“Yeah! I used to be that for my brothers' kids, and I guess I will be again, when I go home. Like, I love my job, don't get me wrong, but I kinda miss that.”

“So you are replacing your nieces and nephews with ...my birds?”

“What?” Scout asks, defensively. “It ain't like there are any kids around here, so I gotta make do. And Archie's been all over me since that time you sewed him up in my chest.”

“Don't think you're special,” Medic says. “He's been in almost everyone's abdominal cavities.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Bring him back by dinner, and no Sandviches.”

Scout grins. “Hell yeah! Come on, Archie, let's go bug Spy. You know how much he hates birds.” He turns to Medic. “You ever seen this?”

“No, I have never used my pets to torture Spy.”

“You're missin' out. Come on, we're going to go put birdseed in his mask and watch what happens. It's _classic_.”

He's not sure why, but he tags along with Scout, Archimedes flying behind them. He has to admit, it's pretty funny to watch Spy flail around as a small friendly dove pokes at his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reread the part about Scout and Archimedes watching baseball, but this time, picture Archimedes in a tiny, bird-sized baseball cap. Everything is now 500% more adorable.


	22. Pyro & Sniper

Sniper watches as Pyro lights his arrow and then scurries away. He uses this to ignite the opposing Demoman.

It's easy to see what Pyro likes so much about setting fires when he's doing this. It's pretty satisfying to watch your enemy go up in flames and then scramble about looking for some way to put themselves out. He smiles and takes a sip of his coffee (horrible stuff, but how else is he going to produce all that jarate?) and waits for the next target.

Pyro comes back shortly thereafter, relights his arrow, and dashes off again. Sniper can hear them cackling madly some distance away, presumably burning their enemies to death. One of the things he likes about Pyro is that they don't say much, on or off the battlefield. Sniper is a quiet fellow, most of the time, and one of the things he looks for in a friend is the knowledge of when to shut up. 

Unfortunately, this is not a quality most of the team possesses. Scout never stops talking, Soldier and Heavy yell everything, Demo is always rambling drunkenly. But Pyro is quiet. They only talk when necessary, and never too loudly. (Plus, they're easy to ignore, if he's in a mood, because of the mumbling.)

So, in situations where he might otherwise tell his teammates to piss off, Sniper finds himself inviting Pyro to come along. They sit silently next to him when they drive into town, they play the world's most sedate card games, they light illicit fires in a trash can on the roof where just the two of them can enjoy it.

Quietly.

Sometimes he thinks that Pyro might actually be his favourite teammate.

When Pyro comes around to light his next arrow, he gives them a silent smile and a tip of his hat. Obviously, he can't see it, but Sniper thinks they're probably returning the grin.


	23. Soldier & Spy

The greatest sacrifice Spy made when he took this job was his very fast-paced social life. There isn't much to do around the base or in town, and no matter how much he tries to cajole Engineer into building a system of teleporters to more exciting locales he won't do it.

So he has to make his own fun.

And just like Engineer is his favourite surveillance target, he has his favourite _funtime_ target.

* * *

“ _AAAHHH!_ ”

“Good morning, Soldier!”

“Get out of my closet, crouton!”

“I like your pajamas. Very flattering.”

* * *

“I require _hydration_! What is in the _AAAHHH!_ ”

“Hello, Soldier!”

“Spy, get out of the refrigerator! That is for American drinks only! As you are neither American nor a refreshing beverage, you need to remove yourself from the premises immediately!”

Without a word, Spy hands him a bottle of water, then swings the door closed.

“What just happened?”

* * *

“Soldier, we need you on the front lines to take down that sentry!”

“I need ammo first! Let me open this cr— _AAAHHH!_ ”

“ _Bonjour, mon ami!_ The sentry has been sapped, and here are your rockets. Have a good day!”

He folds himself back into the crate.

“Never mind, sentry's down!”

* * *

“This turkey is prepared for the oven! Scout, open that door for me.”

Scout turns to do so.

“Wait! We need to check if there's a Spy in there first! Pyro?”

“Mmph?”

“Check if there's a Spy in the oven!”

“Soldier, why would Spy be in the oven? That's just stupid.”

Soldier looks around the room, suspicious. “He can be anywhere at any time. And he's been jumping out and scaring me.”

“So you think _Spy_ , of all people, crammed himself into that tiny oven we never clean just to scare you a little?”

“Yes.”

Spy deactivates the disguise kit that was allowing him to appear as Scout, and waits behind Soldier until he turns around, wearing his best leer. “Wrong.”

“ _AAAHHH!_ ”

* * *

It's been a successful week, if Spy says so himself. He's managed to make Soldier so paranoid that he's checking in every corner and container the base has to offer, just to keep Spy from leaping out and scaring him.

He chuckles to himself as he thinks about it and prepares for bed. He undresses methodically, hanging up each piece of clothing meticulously and putting his shoes squarely away in the closet. Soon he's in his pajamas (and mask and gloves), and ready for sleep. He turns down the bedcovers.

“Good night, private!” Soldier says from his place in Spy's bed.

“ _AAAHHH!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost feel compelled to apologize for this, but I'm not really sorry.


	24. Pyro & Engineer

Engineer met Pyro as soon as Miss Pauling had finished taking him around the base. He had been expecting them to be cool and stand-offish, a cold-blooded predator behind the mask.

This impression lasted the better part of a minute, when he introduced himself as the Engineer and Pyro had swept him into a hug and trilled “Rrrngie!” through their air filters.

“Woah, slow down, there, cowboy!” he had said, a hand flying to his hardhat to keep it on.

“Srry,” Pyro said, putting him down and rubbing the back of their head in embarrassment.

“Nah, don't feel bad, I just wasn't expecting such a, uh, warm welcome.” In truth, Engie wasn't sure what he had been expecting from his new teammates, except that it didn't involve hugs. Maybe something like what he got from Spy, which was a weighing look, a short handshake, and Spy vanishing into thin air.

“Srry,” Pyro said again. “Jrrst rrxcrrtd.”

“It's a mite hard to understand you with that mask on,” Engie said, feeling bad for asking. But it really was hard to puzzle out what they were saying. “Would you mind taking it off?”

“Crrn't,” is all Pyro told him before they left the room. Engineer doesn't ask them again.

* * *

Another thing Engineer hadn't been expecting when he met Pyro was that he was going to be meeting his closest field partner. He had assumed he'd mostly be working alone, setting up his nests, and occasionally seeing his teammates when they came by the dispenser to refuel. But Pyro always makes sure to patrol nearby, periodically checking for Spies with their flamethrower.

“Pyro!” Soldier calls from down the hallway. “We need you for the push! Stop babysitting Engie!”

Pyro looks to Engineer, as if for permission. “Go, go, I'll be fine.”

“Rr yrr srrr?”

He really wishes Pyro could take that mask off; he still hasn't gotten the hang of deciphering their speech. “Go.”

They're gone for a few minutes. Engie stands behind his sentry, bored.

The sentry begins to spark as a sapper does its work. A Spy decloaks. 

“Aw, hell.”

The Spy lunges for him, knife out. Engineer catches it with his wrench, then swings at the Spy's head. He ducks it and tackles Engie to the ground, pulling his knife again. Engineer dodges and deflects the stabs and slashes, wondering how much longer he can keep this up, when there's a set of footsteps.

“Grrt rrf hrrm!”

The Spy goes up in flames with an agonized scream.

The sentry is down, thanks to the sapper, but Engineer is alive and well, and his other buildings are untouched. All in all, a success.

“Thanks, partner,” he says from his seat on the ground, sincerely grateful.

Pyro offers him a hand and pulls him up again. “Nrr prrblrrm.”

* * *

“What's this show called, again?”

“ _Strr Trrk_.”

* * *

“So, Py, you going home for the holidays?” Engineer asks, in December. He's going back to Texas for the break they've been given from the war, though he's not sure why. It's not like he's got anyone to see.

“Nrr.”

“Staying here, then?”

Pyro shrugs. “Grrss srr.”

“Is anyone else staying?” The question is two-faced – he doesn't want Pyro to be lonely, and he's not entirely sure they're fully capable of watching over the base for two weeks without help. He likes Pyro, but he kind of gets the feeling they're _not all there_.

“Drrn't thrrnk srr.”

“Come home with me,” he says. “Got a big house and no one to fill it with. You can help me decorate the tree.”

Pyro claps their hands together. “Yrrry!”

The holidays end with the rather strange tableau of a rocket crashing through the roof of the house while Engineer reads a Smissmas story to a hardened mercenary, but at least the tree looks nice.

* * *

Engineer chuckles as he watches Pyro poke around the lab. “We're not on the field, Py, you don't need to follow me around.”

“Rr knrr.”

“Do you want to do something else?” he prompts.

“Nrrt rrrlly.”

“Do you want to build something with me?”

“Yrrh!”

Engie thinks about it for a moment, then begins gathering materials. “Hand me those two things, would you? Thanks.”

He gives instructions and guidance (and does some of the more complicated work) as Pyro puts the pieces together into a distinctly home-made flamethrower. It looks a little shabby, but hours later, when they test it, it works beautifully.

“Good job!” Engie says, clapping Pyro on the shoulder. “What are you gonna call her?”

Pyro tilts their head, thinking about it. “Thrr Drrgrrsrr.”

* * *

“Nrr rrdd thrr srrce,” Pyro says, directing Engineer around the kitchen. He wanted to expand his cooking repetoire beyond “throwing meat on the barbeque”, and Pyro wanted to pay him back for teaching them to build flamethrowers, so now they're in the base's tiny kitchen making dinner. Pyro forced him to wear an apron, so now he's wearing one of Heavy's and it's practically falling off him.

“This isn't as hard as I thought it would be,” Engineer notes as he adds the sauce.

“Crrkrrng rrsn't thrrt hrrd,” Pyro agrees, “rrnlrrss yrr Drrmrr.”

Engineer wheezes a laugh. “We should really stop letting him in the kitchen.”

* * *

It's been a quiet afternoon. The fighting is done for the day, and now Engineer is just making some adjustments and repairs to some weapons while Pyro stares at the fire they've built in the fireplace Engie installed for them not long previous. “Comfortable” is probably the word Engineer would use.

It's funny, Engineer muses to himself, that someone whose face he has never seen or true voice he has never heard could be his best friend. But that's what Pyro is, now, he thinks. Despite his rather friendly nature, Engie has always been a bit isolated from other people, first by his intelligence and later by his _moral nonchalance_. He's never really had a best friend. But when he looks at what he has with Pyro, he's pretty sure that's it.


	25. Demoman & Spy

It's Demoman's birthday today, and the team is half-fearing it, half-anticipating it. He's only had one birthday at the base prior, and the party thrown was so raucous that portions of the building actually collapsed, and that's not even including the injuries Medic had to tend to afterwards (while nursing a rather brutal hangover, nonetheless).

So once the battle is done, the team immediately settles in the common area of the base with their gifts for Demo, all of which are some kind of alcohol.

“I'd be offended,” he says, “if I weren't so bloody pleased.”

The party really picks up after that. Scout puts on some of his records and Engineer uses a table as a makeshift bar – turns out he's as good at mixing as Demo himself. After a couple rounds, Heavy's started a conga line, Soldier is shouting made-up war stories, and Sniper, in a move so cliche it practically came out of a movie, is wearing a lampshade on his head.

Spy, on the other hand, is sitting in his armchair in the corner with a glass of wine, looking morose.

“You don't look like you're enjoying yourself,” Demo says, leaning up against the back of the chair.

“I am having a fine time watching everyone make fools of themselves,” Spy replies. He doesn't mention that he has Scout's blackmail camera in his pocket, just in case.

“No,” Demo tells him, suddenly filled with conviction, “you are going to celebrate _properly_. Have some drinks. Dance to Scout's devil music.”

“I have a drink,” Spy says, shaking his glass in Demo's direction.

“Och, what is that? Wine? This isn't a posh dinner or a funeral! We're getting you a real drink.”

He drags Spy, literally, over to Engineer's “bar” and swaps out his wine glass for some garishly-coloured concoction. “Bottoms up,” Demo says, draining his own drink. Spy reluctantly drinks his.

“How was that, lad?”

“Disgustingly sweet. I would never have pegged Engineer for the type.”

“Really? When I first met him that was exactly what I thought. 'There's a lad who likes his drinks with little swords in them.' All right, now that you're in the party mood --” 

“I don't feel any different.”

“ _Now that you're in the party mood_ , you need to catch up to the rest of us.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

* * *

“The game is called Quarters,” Demo says, having haulled Spy over to a small round table with several shot glasses on it. Medic has been roped into pouring more.

Despite being much drunker than Spy and one-eyed to boot, Demo is a master Quarters player, and Spy winds up rip-roaring drunk inside half an hour.

“Now you're ready,” he says, grinning. Spy returns it unsteadily.

* * *

Spy, despite being a social drinker of some renown, does not get drunk often, so when he does, it's always an event. He is something of an _enthusiastic_ drunk.

He drags Demo over to the stereo and dances with him – even though he wobbled so much on the way over that he almost fell down, he's still a very good dancer – then with everyone else. He gets hot, so he takes off his tie and jacket.

“Watch this,” Demo says to Sniper, who tips up his lampshade. When the record ends, Demo changes it out for another one.

“Oh, I love this song,” Spy shouts immediately, leaping on to the couch and singing along. He may still have had all his dance faculties in order, but he certainly does not have any musical ones – his singing is loud and flat and his accent is thicker than usual.

“Is that ...Tom Jones?” Sniper asks.

“Spy's a big fan. He made me promise not to tell, but this is worth a trip through Respawn, eh?”

“Aw, man, I wish I had my camera,” Scout says, watching the spectacle. Spy is still going strong.

“Don't worry, son, I got this,” Engie says, indicating his Super 8 camera.

* * *

“Come on, Spy, time for bed,” Demo says, attempting to lead Spy to his bedroom, which he actually uses since Sniper made him stop sleeping on top of his van.

“ _J'viens,_ ” he murmurs, attempting to work his legs. He hasn't been able to stand up since he stopped his impromptu Tom Jones tribute to try every drink Engie was capable of making.

“Oh, lord, you're so blotted you're not even in English anymore.”

“ _Quoi?_ ”

“All right, here's yours, open the door.”

“ _Incapable,_ ” Spy says, “ _la clé est dans ma poche._ ”

“Spy. I am going to need you to speak English.”

Spy huffs, as if this is a great hardship for him. “The key,” he says, slowly, “is in my pocket. And I don't recall where I left my pants.”

“You don't remember running them up the bloody flagpole and trying to get everyone to swear allegiance to fine Italian craftsmanship?”

Spy blinks at him. “No.”

Demo sighs. “You sit here,” he says, lowering Spy to the ground, “and I'll get your damn pants.”

He comes back a few minutes later with Spy's pants (and his tie and jacket, which he collected from the common area), to find Spy still sitting there. He had been half-expecting that Spy would have recovered enough to walk and wandered off, but apparently not. Demo fishes the key out of Spy's pants (there's something he never thought he'd be doing) and unlocks the door. 

“Up you get,” he says, hefting Spy onto his feet again, then, “down you go,” as he lowers him into his bed.

“Did I do well?” Spy asks.

“What?”

“At getting into the party mood.”

“Aye, you're a real swinger.”

“ _Bien_ ,” he says, smiling.

“See you in the morning, lad.”

“Happy birthday, Demoman,” Spy mumbles into his pillow, already half-asleep.


	26. Scout & Sniper

They're in unfamiliar territory for once, taking heavy fire from the other team. It's going to take a lot to turn the tide of battle, but Sniper, for one, is equal to the job. He takes out three enemies as quickly as he can reload, then notices the fourth is about to take Scout down.

“Scout, get down!” Sniper calls, picking off the member of the other team gunning for him.

“Thanks, man, didn't even see that guy.”

“Pay more attention, mate.” Sniper heads back to his nest while Scout continues to try to flank the other team with his handgun.

With the opposing team thinned out by Scout and Sniper's combined attack, their team is doing well, pushing through their defenses and nearing the capture point. Sniper is just wondering whether he needs to move forward as well when he's interrupted.

“You're not supposed to aim for the head!” complains the guy Sniper just shot, wiping paint off his forehead.

“What? Why not?”

“Because it hurts!”

“I thought that was the point.”

“No, the point is _fun_. Stop trying so hard.”

Sniper pulls out the paintball-filled sidearm the man at admissions gave him along with his rifle and shoots the man until he goes away, clothes covered in garish neon paint. He finds a new place to shoot from and unslings the paintball rifle.

Scout is still running around like a jackrabbit, picking off the teenagers standing around the point and laughing maniacally. He allows himself a smile at the sight, the kids throwing down their guns in frustration and storming off. The capture point changes colour as Scout stands on it, and he flashes a thumbs-up in Sniper's direction.

* * *

“What'd you think of that, Snipes?” he asks, when they're in Sniper's van on the way back to the base.

“Eh, a little boring,” Sniper says, turning a corner, “and when I normally shoot people they don't complain about it to me after.”

“Are you kidding? Remember the time the other team's Spy wrote you that letter after you sniped him like ten times in one round?”

Sniper laughs. “I still have that. Always brightens my day.”

“But you didn't hate it or anything,” Scout presses on, changing the subject back to where they started.

“No, I guess not. I don't think I'll be doing it much when I have the option of shooting actual people with an actual gun, but it might be a good hobby for when I'm retired. At least if they keep the screaming kids to a minimum.”

Scout screws up his face. “Retired?”

“Assuming someone doesn't off me for true before then, yeah.”

“It's weird to think of you not snipin'. It's weird to think of any of us not doing what we do best, really.”

“Well, I don't think anyone's planning on leaving any time soon, mate. I wouldn't worry.”

“I'm not _worried_!”

“Of course not, kid.”

“I'm just used to you old guys now. I don't wanna have to get used to a buncha new guys, that's all I'm sayin'.”

“I'm thirty-eight!” Sniper exclaims, completely disregarding the rest of the statement.

Scout smirks. “Old.”

“Don't make me push you out of this van. I've done it before.”

“You didn't push anyone, you went driving before Spy got up and he fell off the roof.” Obviously, he hadn't known that at the time – Spy had just shown up one day limping and clutching his side with some story about falling down the stairs that they had all laughed at – but after Sniper had found out about Spy's sleeping arrangements he managed to get the real story. Then he laughed even harder.

“Then you'll be the first. Congratulations.”

“Ah, you're no fun.”

“I let you drag me out to this game of yours. I can't be all bad.”

Scout considers. “Yeah, I guess. But it was only you because everyone else said no,” he adds, grinning.

“What!” Sniper reaches for Scout's door. The van swerves dangerously.

“Kidding! Jeez, keep your eyes on the road.”

* * *

“Did you lads have fun at your wee game?” Demo asks when they get back.

“Yeah!” says Scout.

“I guess,” says Sniper, who leaves the room. He's had enough of people for the day.

“He only tried to kill me once,” Scout says after he leaves.

“Aye, that means he likes you.”

“Thought so.”


	27. Heavy & Engineer

“Is your fault,” Heavy says. “If you had put sentry where I said --”

“What?” Engineer says, turning red. “Your idea was stupid! They would have destroyed it before I built the damn thing if I listened to you!”

“Was destroyed anyway,” he says, sounding smug.

Engineer just sputters for a moment, getting into Heavy's personal space. “Look here,” he starts, trying to jam his finger into the other man's face but, being unable to reach, jabs it into his chest instead, “I do my job, and you do yours. Sentry placement is _my_ job, so keep your nose out of it!”

Heavy bats his hand down. “Only trying to help little teammate.”

“That's it,” Engie says, throwing his hardhat down and storming off. Heavy takes a moment to consider the argument won, but Engineer comes back, dragging a chair.

“Why did you bring chair?” Heavy asks, genuinely confused. Instead of answering, Engineer just climbs up to stand on it so that the two of them are finally face-to-face.

“So we can have this discussion properly! Now, I don't appreciate --” He has to stop, because Heavy's started laughing, long and hard, at the sight of him propped up on a chair like a child. He tries again. “I don't appreciate you trying to take charge of this team like that, and I certainly don't appreciate you laughing at my creative solution to this problem!”

“Cannot help it,” he says between bouts of laughter. “You are just so tiny, and you have to stand on chair like --”

“If you call me a baby I swear to _God_ \--”

“What do we have here?” Spy's come in, and now he's leaning against the doorway in such a deliberate display of nonchalance that it circles around to “hilarious”. “Am I interrupting something? I must say, I always thought it would be Heavy and the _docteur_ , but...”

Engineer realizes that this must look somewhat suggestive, with him and Heavy leaning into each other's space the way they are. He leans back so quickly he almost takes himself and his chair down. “It ain't like that. We're just arguing.”

“ _Da,_ , and little Engineer had to get chair to stand on because he is so tiny.”

“I ain't that small!”

“You are, rather, _mon petit_ ,” says Spy, grinning.

“Get out of here, Spy.”

“I expect you'll want to have words with me, too? I shall try to remember a stepstool for when you come by.”

“Heavy, pass me my hardhat.”

“Why?”

“I want to chuck it at Spy's head.”

“Oh, yes, here you go.”

“Much obliged.”

Spy ducks under the helmet, having been given sufficient warning, and turns to go back down the hallway, cackling and snorting as he goes.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Engie continues, “don't tell me how to do my work. It takes a lot of planning to do what I do, and I think out all my decisions long before I make any of them. So don't treat me like an idiot.”

“But --”

“No buts, mister. I don't tell you what to do on the field, do I?”

“No,” Heavy admits, grudgingly. “Will not tell you what to --”

“Truckie, what are you doing up there?” Engineer slaps a hand to his face.

“I'm _trying_ to have a face-to-face conversation with this giant over here, but everyone keeps barging in and asking why I'm standing on a chair!”

“Nah, seems pretty obvious. It's because you're --”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm short, it's goddamn hilarious. Anyway, I think we're done, so I can get down before --”

“Hah, nice set-up, there, Hardhat! Keep that one in mind for the Smissmas party. Hurts everyone's backs when they gotta lean down under the mistletoe.”

“Oh, for the love of --”

“Private! That chair is for sitting, not standing! Or is this some kind of _Communist plot_?”

“Is not plot,” Heavy says, bewildered. “Why would Communists want people to stand on chair?”

“Who knows what the Commies want! They're like cats that way!”

It's Engineer's turn to be completely baffled. “Cats? What? No, Sol, I'm just standing on the chair so the big guy's not a foot and a half taller than me. Now, is there anyone else who wants to see me standing on this and laugh, because I'd like to get down.”

“Will help,” Heavy says, and before he can protest, Engineer finds himself being picked up by the back of his overalls like a kitten by its mother. Scout whips out his blackmail camera and takes a picture. Engineer considers ways to “accidentally” murder him – that thing is the bane of base life.

“I hate everyone in this base,” he grumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was a longer version of this chapter, but i think i like this version better.


	28. Pyro & Medic

It all started with a ready Ubercharge, several dead teammates, and a charging enemy team. Medic was in the process of beating a hasty retreat from his oncoming enemies, casting about for a suitable target for his Ubercharge. He passed Spy, but charging him would certainly blow his cover, and Spy was so touchy about these things. He caught a glimpse of Scout, but the boy was off and away before Medic could even properly register his appearance.

The day was saved when a muffled shout came from his left side, and he looked over to see Pyro running up, flamethrower at the ready. Without further ado, Medic sprinted over to them and hit the switch for the charge, hoping to at least turn the enemy back around.

As it turned out, Pyro was astonishing. Within the first two seconds, the entire knot of enemies that had been running them down was set on fire. Before their Medic could do anything about it, Pyro had sunk their Axtinguisher into his back, and then set about doing the same for the rest of the team. The barbed-wire-wrapped blade of their axe finished them all off quickly, if a little brutally. Not that Medic had any qualms about that.

“Rrr yrr llrrtt?” Pyro asked, after the glow faded from the lenses of their mask and the blood of their opponents was dripping from their axehead. Their concern reminded Medic a little of the way they were with Engineer, fiercely loyal and constantly on guard.

“Yes, I am fine! Better than fine! I feel fantastic! We should do that again!” Medic exclaims, having reached the stage of a match where he begins to shout everything and punctuate most of his sentences with disturbing laughter.

“Yrr nndd trr chrrgg rrggin,” Pyro says, leaning on the axe like it's a cane, and carrying on a conversation about scientifically-improbable murder sprees like it's small talk about the weather.

“ _Ja_ , I know that! But when it's ready...” He doesn't finish the sentence in lieu of indulging in some maniacal laughter. Pyro giggles along with him.

“Pyro! Doc!”

The two of them stop laughing and turn to see Engineer running out of Respawn. Pyro gives a small wave.

“Y'all all right out here? Soldier said last he saw most of the other side was runnin' the doc down pretty bad.”

“I had an Ubercharge ready. As it turns out, Pyro makes an excellent partner.” Pyro rocks back on their heels, obviously pleased by the praise. Engineer claps them on the shoulder with his gloved right hand.

“Your first charge, eh, buddy? How'd it go?”

“Klldd thmm ll,” Pyro says, casually.

“It was _wonderful_ ,” Medic says, remembering the image of a fierce, glowing Pyro slaughtering the entire lot of them. “We took them by surprise, I think. The chaos! It was amazing!”

Pyro flaps a hand as if to say _oh, how you do go on_.

“I'm proud of you, partner,” Engie says. “Maybe you'll take the big guy's place as head honcho.”

Medic considers, the rush of battle starting to fade, and returning him to his usual state of cold calm. “I do not think the tactic would be effective if we used it too often, so Heavy's position as my usual Uber target is likely safe. I do look forward to next time, however.”

“Mrr trr,” Pyro mumbles, hefting their axe onto their shoulder.

“Come on, fellas,” Engie says. “We best get back to work or all of this is gonna be for nothing.”

Medic notices the other team keeps a wide berth from Pyro's patrol path after that, and he doesn't think it's all to do with the sentry gun in the middle of it. He smiles broadly, thinking about the next reign of terror the two of them will inflict.


	29. Soldier & Sniper

“Private!” Soldier bellows as he walks into the kitchen. Sniper looks over his shoulder to make sure he's the private in question.

“Yeah?”

“That is my last _cupcake_! Put down the cupcake!”

Now, Soldier does have a point. Pyro baked those cupcakes for Soldier, and by rights he should be allowed to eat the last one. However, Sniper was here first, and letting Soldier get his way is a dangerous precendent to set.

“Nah.” Sniper says, proceeding to unwrap the cupcake.

Soldier crosses the room in three large steps and leans in. “Do not do it! Do not even _think_ about doing it! That cupcake is mine!”

“Tell you what,” Sniper says, putting the cupcake onto the table, Soldier's eyes following the delicious treat like a dog's, “I'll arm-wrestle you for it.”

“What?!” Soldier barks. “You are a twig! I will break you like fine china!”

Sniper draws himself up to full height, which is pretty damn tall. “I was Adelaide Arm-Wrestling Champion three years in a row, mate! I could take any one of you!”

“Hah! I would like to see you _try_!”

He puts his arm on the table in time-honoured arm-wrestling position. Sniper hitches his sleeve up a little farther and matches it. “Wait,” he says, before the actual wrestling starts, “we need a judge. Just in case.”

Five minutes later, they're back in the kitchen with Heavy, Medic, and Engineer in tow, because the three of them were all stashed away in the infirmary and all wanted to see Sniper's inevitable broken arm.

“Why does no one believe me about my championships?” Sniper asks as they sit back down at the dinner table. “I've got the trophy in my van!”

“You can show it to us later, slim,” Engie says. “Now get wrestlin'.”

Seated across from each other, Sniper and Soldier take up the position again, taking each other's hands.

“Go,” says Heavy, peering intently at their clasped hands. Medic leans over the table, equally interested, but he's mostly staring at Sniper's forearm for signs of imminent snapping.

The struggle seems evenly matched, and no one's hands are going anywhere near the flat of the table. When Soldier looks up from their locked hands, Sniper can see he looks surprised under his helmet. He smirks in return, causing Soldier to grit his teeth and try even harder. 

“Ready to give in?”

“Hah! You are just as stuck as me, and I have the kind of patience a man only gets from spending years defending a _hole in the ground_!”

“And I've got the kind of strength you get from living in the Outback,” Sniper says, putting in a burst of effort. Their arms move a little bit, but it's not the victory he was hoping for, and Soldier manages to make up his lost ground within seconds.

“Is not what I expected,” Heavy says, looking a little disappointed.

“ _Ja_ , I was expecting at least a compound fracture for Herr Sniper, if not multiple breaks.”

“I told you I was good!”

“Yes, we believe you now.”

“Right after this is done and I eat this cupcake, I am going to get out that trophy and make you all look at it.”

“Wait, this is for a cupcake?” Engineer asks.

“Yeah, didn't we tell you that?”

“No, just said needed judge for arm-wrestling contest and we said yes.”

“This does not matter! All that matters is that I win and we all agree!”

“Well, it kinda matters, Soldier,” Engineer says, “because Heavy already ate the cupcake.”

Their hands flop onto the table immediately, Sniper's on top. “What?!” they both ask.

“Was sitting out,” Heavy says, shrugging. Medic looks torn between “long-suffering” and “trying not to laugh”.

Soldier and Sniper exchange a look, or rather Sniper looks at Soldier's helmet. It's a look meaning “we probably shouldn't try to arm-wrestle Heavy”.

“I'm still the winner, and I'm still getting that trophy,” Sniper declares, pointing at where their hands are still lying on the table.

“That does not count! I demand a recount!”

“Best two out of three?” Sniper asks, repositioning his arm. Soldier takes it without answering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SHRUGGING INTENSIFIES]


	30. Pyro & Heavy

“Pyro! Need your help,” Heavy says, stopping Pyro as they pass by his bedroom door.

“Whrrt rrs rrt?” Pyro asks, head cocked.

“Have to get extra vest from closet, but am too big to get inside. Need small person to get it.”

Pyro crosses their arms, a little miffed at being described as “small” (even if the only person in the base they're taller than is Engineer), but when Heavy appends a “please” they agree with only some minor grumbling.

“Is in back, I think,” Heavy directs as Pyro wades into his closet. Pyro flaps a hand to say _fine, fine_ , and vanishes behind the first row of thick sweaters and heavy coats. Suddenly there's a muffled shriek of delight and Pyro's pushing their way back out with two hangers in hand. The first is the vest Heavy was looking for, and the second...

The second is a frilly pink tutu, a pair of fairy wings, and a sparkly gold tiara.

Heavy pales, immediately trying to come up with enough English words to explain this away, but Pyro's already run out of the room with it. He is completely at a loss for what to do – now everyone is going to see what he keeps in his closet.

But Pyro bounds back into the room with the costume still in hand, wearing a wide-brimmed, flower-decked hat and holding a teapot in the other hand. “Trr prrty!” they exclaim, brandishing the hanger and the tea set.

Heavy is taken aback. “What?”

“Prrt thrrs rrn. Rr'm grrnnrr mrrk trr!” And then Pyro is gone again, this time leaving the fairy costume behind.

Heavy looks at it, then at the door. He looks at it, then at the window. He could probably escape in the time that it will take Pyro to make the tea, but at the same time he doesn't feel right running away from them when they just want to do something nice for him. (Not least because he worries that doing so would end in his charred corpse.)

Sighing, he locks the door and puts on the outfit. He does enjoy wearing it, but he prefers to do so in private. It's not the kind of thing he wants the team to think of him doing, not even Medic, who he trusts with most of his secrets.

There's a knock on the door. “Hrrvrr, rrt's mrr!” Heavy stands behind the door and opens it just enough for Pyro to shimmy inside. They're carrying a tray with a full teapot and a plate with a pile of tiny sandwiches. “Trr prrty!” they call again.

Heavy, resigned to letting this happen, drags the small table next to his bed into the middle of the room and lets Pyro set up the tea and snacks. “What happens now?”

“Drrnk trr,” they answer, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. Pyro fills two mugs from the kitchen, puts a straw in one, and hooks it up to their gasmask. Heavy's not entirely sure how that's working, but he also doesn't want to ask. Heavy takes up his own mug.

“Nrr,” Pyro says, reaching over. “Prrnkrr rrt.” They take Heavy's hand and rearrange it so that his pinkie is out. “Mrrch brrttrr.”

The impromptu tea party goes well, the two of them finishing off the tea and Heavy finishing off the sandwiches, until there's a knock on the door. Both of them freeze.

“Yo, Heavy, it's Scout!”

“Go away, little baby man.”

“No way, man, Medic told me he wanted to see you and I ain't going back there without you because he'll try cutting me up.”

“He will not,” Heavy says, rolling his eyes. Medic is a pretty scary man, he's willing to admit, but it usually takes more than that to get him to try chopping anyone up. Actually, he's never done it without asking first, at least in Heavy's case.

“I don't wanna risk it!”

“Too bad.”

“Come on!”

“No.”

“Ugh, fine,” Scout says, walking away. Heavy lets out a relieved breath and returns to the tea party. 

Suddenly, there's a loud thump, and the door falls into the room, revealing what's going on inside. Scout's twirling a hammer and chisel around his fingers. “I'm used to getting locked out of _what are you guys doing?_ ”

“Trr prrty,” Pyro says, shrugging.

Scout doubles over, laughing. “Oh, man, you guys are lucky Spy still has my camera, because I would be taking so many pictures of this.”

Pyro tilts their hat to a jaunty angle, defiantly. “Rr drrn't crrr.”

Heavy, however, is not that big a man (or woman, or whatever Pyro is), and stands up. “I am going to kill you.”

And that is how the rest of the base saw Scout running around, followed minutes later by Heavy wearing a fairy princess costume. Spy gets the picture of him wearing it.


	31. Medic & Spy

“I've finished your book,” Spy says, holding it up as he walks into the infirmary.

“Oh, yes? What did you think of it?” Medic asks, putting some specimens Spy can't and doesn't want to identify into the fridge, then turning to put on a pot of tea.

Spy shrugs with one shoulder, putting the book back on Medic's shelf. “It wasn't as absorbing as last week's.”

“You say that every time it's my turn to pick a book,” Medic admonishes him, leaning up against the counter.

“Perhaps you should choose more interesting novels,” Spy says, grinning.

“'Interesting', you say, like everything you pick isn't dime-store pulp _trash_!”

Spy starts turning red under his mask. “My books are not trash!”

Pretty much all the meetings of their two-person book club go like this, probably because they couldn't convince anyone else to join – Heavy expressed interest, but his English is too limited and neither Spy or Medic can read Russian. So every week, one of them chooses a book to read, and they attempt to have a literary discussion. Unfortunately, neither of them have an appropriate taste in literature for this to work. Medic's choices are all impenetrable Gothic novels that he complains don't contain enough _actual_ violence compared to the _implied_ violence, and despite his public disdain for the genre Spy consistently chooses horrendous contemporary espionage novels.

It's not so much a “book club” as a “drink tea and yell at each other club”, though if any of their teammates were to ask, it was a dignified, mature discussion.

“Ha! Last week, we actually read a James Bond novel! I didn't think you would sink that low, to be honest.”

“Ian Fleming is the leader of the genre,” Spy says, pointing an accusatory finger. “And _your_ last choice was essentially fifty pages of heavily-implied incest.”

“It was not!”

“Oh, please, did you actually read it, or did you skip over all of it until the part about burying someone alive?”

“Of course I read it!” Medic says, affronted. “How else would I have known there was an entombment in the first place?”

Spy slaps a hand to his face. “I knew you just read these things for the horrible things happening to people.”

Medic pours the now-ready tea. “The _Schauerroman_ is a perfectly valid genre where I come from!”

“Edgar Allan Poe was not German, you imbecile, your argument is full of holes!”

“He still wrote those kinds of books! His nationality is irrelevant!”

“You are irrelevant!”

“Excellent comeback, Herr Spy, have you been working on that long?”

“About as long as _your mother_!”

“Really, now, those jokes only work on Scout.”

Spy settles down a bit, sitting back down and taking his hands off the table to adjust his tie. “Excuse me for that lapse in decorum. I was speaking with Scout before I got here and I believe I am still a bit riled up.”

“This happens every week! You don't have to play 'suave gentleman' with me any longer.”

“I _am_ a suave gentleman!”

Medic laughs. Spy interrupts after about a minute.

“Fine, I may not be as ...debonair as I act, but you are no better.”

“How so?”

Spy puts on a high-pitched voice and fake German accent. “'Oh, I am ze Medic, I am so _intelligent_ and _terrifying_ and _reserved_ , except zat I have a laugh like a little girl and cutting off body parts gives me a --'”

“ _My_ laugh is ridiculous? At least I don't break down into snorting every time something is mildly amusing!”

“I do not snort!”

“You snort! You snort all the time!”

“I do not,” he repeats, gritting his teeth.

“Yes, you do, and you also sing Tom Jones songs when you drink.”

“Oh, are we getting into drunken foolishness now? Because only one person in this room has worn leather shorts and folk-danced in front of the Administrator.”

“It was Oktoberfest!”

“You don't see me putting on a beret and baking baguettes every time Bastille Day rolls around. I don't think it's technically _required_ of all German citizens to make stereotypical asses of themselves every October.”

“Then you've never read our constitution,” Medic says, taking the cigarette Spy's just lighted and putting it out.

Spy blinks at him for a moment, then bursts out laughing. It turns to snorting within seconds.

“ _Mon dieu_ , I really do snort!”

He laughs some more. Medic can't help but join in, and soon the two of them are hooting and cackling into their mostly-untouched tea.

“Ah, I knew there was a reason I continued to put up with you, _docteur_ ,” Spy says, wiping his eyes with his gloved hand. “I will return next week, once I have chosen a book.”

“You don't have one picked already? I've got mine lined up in case you can't find something,” Medic says, hinting.

“Let me guess, this one is about cannibals?”

“No,” says Medic, brightly, “necromancy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie, this is one of my favourite chapters.
> 
> Also: the Poe story they're talking about is "The Fall of the House of Usher"; the necromancy book referenced is _The Ghost-Seer_ by Friedrich von Schiller; and _Schauerroman_ means "shudder-novel" and refers to a specific kind of German-Gothic story. Can you tell I've studied Gothic literature in a more serious capacity?


	32. Scout & Demoman

Demo is hard at work in the lab, tongue between his teeth and eye squinted, when Scout barges in.

“Yo, Cyclops!” he shouts, causing Demo to nearly blow the lab sky-high when he fumbles the grenade he's working on. However, he manages to catch all the explosives before they hit the floor and saves them all from certain respawn. “Nice catch.”

“Och, what is it, lad? I'm working here.”

“I got this new weapon in the latest shipment and I was wondering if you could, y'know, help me with it.”

This confuses him. Scout uses a shotgun, a pistol, and a bat, none of which are really Demo's wheelhouse, since nothing explodes. “Me? I don't think I'll be --” Scout cuts his protests off by producing the weapon from behind his back: a long, skinny sword. “Ah. Maybe I _can_ help.”

“Yeah, I don't know why they sent me this thing. I don't know shit about swordfighting.”

“Lucky for you, I do. Let me see your wee blade.” Scout passes it over, and Demo proceeds to check its craftsmanship and balance. “Well, it looks like a good sword, at least. We can start lessons tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I was hoping I could start hacking things up right now.”

“Aye, tomorrow. I'm in no shape to be swordfighting right now, and my grenades need finishing.”

Scout looks dejected, but says, “Okay,” and leaves Demo to his work.

* * *

“'Ey, wake up, Cyclops!”

Demo cracks his eye open to find Scout jumping on his bed, shaking him awake. “Bloody hell, Scout, what are you doing?”

“We got shit to do, get up! You said you'd teach me to use that sword today!”

Demo sits up and puts his eyepatch on. “I said I'd _start_ teaching you today. This is going to be a long-term thing, boyo.”

“I know that! But you need to get up and start now!”

Scout is equally excited and bothersome all through Demo's morning routine, yammering on while he eats breakfast, while he drinks his coffee, while he takes a shower. That last one makes him a touch uncomfortable, but Scout remains unmoveable.

Finally, when he's washed and fed and dressed, with his own sword in its scabbard at his hip, Demo leads Scout outside. 

“Uh, where are we going?” he asks as they walk through the base.

“We're going by the infirmary to pick up Medic,” Demo answers, “because I'm not letting you flail around with a sharp object without a medi-gun nearby.”

Scout looks briefly offended, but only says, “Yeah, smart thinkin'.”

With Medic and his medi-gun in place at the picnic table they inexplicably have outside the base, Demo deems Scout ready for his first lesson.

Hours and three severed-and-regrown fingers later, the lesson is done.

“Thanks, doc,” Demo tells Medic, who's already packed up and walking away – he hadn't enjoyed himself except when Scout cut his fingers off. “Good job today, lad. More tomorrow.”

Scout, who's still out of breath, just gives him a thumbs-up.

* * *

The cycle continues every morning, a chatty and determined Scout following a still-sleepy-and-usually-hungover Demo to get a reluctant Medic and go practice swordfighting. Soon Scout's learned the basics, and though he's no match for the stronger and much more practised Demoman, he's coming along nicely. Demo makes sure to tell him that, because it seems the more nice things you say to Scout the more likely he is to actually keep trying.

* * *

In a few months, Demo proclaims Scout ready to take the sword into battle. He jumps at the chance, literally bouncing several feet into the air and running off to get it.

All day long, Demo makes sure to keep an eye on his protégé, making sure he doesn't accidentally lop off anything important. He does manage to hit himself a few times with mistimed swings, causing Demo to wince, but it's nothing Medic can't fix with his medi-gun and a couple of insults.

All of his hard work and trouble is worth it, though, when he sees Scout hoist up the severed head of the other team's Soldier, beaming like the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're in the home stretch now! what will i do with myself when i'm done?


	33. Engineer & Sniper

_Ch-ch-ch-ch, ch-ch-ch-ch-ch._

“Piss,” Sniper mutters to himself, still trying to get his van to start. It keeps making that noise and refusing to turn over, which means he's stuck in the middle of nowhere. “Piss!” he says again, louder. He's halfway between the base and town, miles away from anything. In the middle of the desert, in the middle of the day.

There's only one thing he can try, unless someone happens to drive past, and that seems unlikely considering this is a private road for company employees only. Sniper goes to the back of the van and rustles around for a moment, coming up with one of Pyro's flare guns. He loads it up and shoots it into the sky, realizing as he does it that it's far too bright outside for anyone to actually see it.

He settles down to wait. It's going to be a while, even if someone did see his flare.

He's fallen asleep against the tire of the van when he hears gravel crunching under tires and stands up, looking for the culprit. It must have been a few hours since he fired that flare and nodded off, since the sky is dark now.

“Get stuck, slim?” asks a familiar voice from the window of a familiar truck.

“Truckie!” Sniper exlaims in genuine relief. “You saw my flare?” 

“Flare? Nah, you were just gone a lot longer than you said and I figured I'd better make sure something like this hadn't happened. Something the matter with your van?”

“Yeah, I don't know what's wrong with the bloody thing. Can you take a look at it?”

A funny look crosses Engineer's face. “Yeah, of course,” he says, hopping out of the truck to join Sniper on the road, toolbox in hand. He props open the hood of Sniper's van, pulls up his sleeves a little farther, and sets to work.

Or at least it _looks_ like he's setting to work. He stands there, looking at the innards of Sniper's van, occasionally poking and prodding at something with a wrench, then withdrawing his hand.

“Do you know what's wrong?” Sniper prompts after a few minutes of this.

Engineer sighs, tilting his hardhat back. “I'll tell you what's wrong – I don't know anything about cars.”

“What?” Sniper practically shouts. “Don't you have like ten degrees? You can build a giant gun in seconds! You _invented teleportation!_ How can you not know how to fix a van?”

“First off, I have eleven doctorates. And none of them are in automotive engineering, all right? It's not something I ever learned.”

“So you came out to the middle of the bloody desert even though you couldn't do anything to help.”

“I came to drive you back,” he says, turning red in embarrassment. “I know how to _tow_ a van, at least.”

Sniper is skeptical of Engie's skills regarding anything automotive now, but he lets him hook up the van to the back of the truck anyway.

“Don't look at me like that, Down Under,” Engineer says after he finishes. “It'll be fine.”

“It better be! I brought that van all the way from Australia.”

“Seems like an awful lot of trouble for a car,” he says, climbing into the cab of the truck. Sniper follows his lead.

Once seated, Sniper shrugs. “It's my van.”

“Ready to go?” Engie asks, restarting the truck.

“Holy dooley, yes. I've been out here all day!”

Engineer puts the truck in gear and starts driving. There's a wrenching noise and a loud, metallic crash.

“Truckie,” Sniper starts, “if that was your bumper falling off, I might have to kill you.”

“Better not turn around, then,” Engie says, laughing nervously. “I'm sure it's nothing I can't fix.”

“I thought you didn't know anything about cars.”

“Not their insides, but I can reattach a piece of metal to another piece of metal. It'll be good as new. Or possibly even stronger, if I do it right...” He starts mumbling to himself as he gathers the materials to try patching up the truck. Sniper sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. They're going to die out here.

“Yee-haw!” comes a shout of triumph from the back of the truck. Sniper wakes up from his second impromptu nap of the day and sticks his head out of the window.

“Did you fix it?”

“Yessir! That van of yours ain't going anywhere.” Engineer hops back into the driver's seat and pulls back onto the road, the van following behind.

“This was an experience I never thought I'd have,” Sniper says after they've been driving for a few minutes and he's satisfied that his van isn't about to make another break for freedom.

“What, getting stuck in the desert? Didn't you _live_ in the desert?”

“No, finding out there're things even you don't know how to do.”

Engie laughs at that, making Sniper crack a smile of his own. “There's plenty I don't know how to do. Or did y'all forget about chili haggis night already?”

“I don't think I'll ever forget eating that,” he says, shuddering. “But you do a lot of stuff, Truckie, and you're pretty good at most of it.”

“Well, thanks, partner.”

“Sometimes it's actually a bit reassuring to see you bollocks something up.”

“Well, thanks, partner,” he repeats, but flatter, this time.

“Keeps me from wondering if you're secretly a robot.”

“A robot.”

“You never know.”

* * *

“Ah, I see you've found the bushman,” Spy says, when the two of them walk into the base. The rest of the team is scattered about the common area, indulging in their own leisure activities.

“Aw, Spy, I never knew you cared,” Sniper says.

“I was just making note of my _disappointment!_ ”

Engineer rolls his eyes behind his goggles, then addresses the room at large. “Do any of y'all know anything about cars? Sniper's van broke down and I can't make heads or tails of it.”

“Not to sound rude,” says Medic, who almost always sounded rude, “but if you cannot fix it, I don't think any of us will be able to.”

“Nah, turns out Truckie doesn't know anything about actual trucks. Or vans.”

“Really?”

Engineer huffs a small sigh. “Nope. If any of y'all know about engines, be my guest.”

“Yeah, let me have a look at it,” says Scout, standing up from the floor. “Two of my brothers got a garage back home and they taught me some stuff.”

Surprised, but not saying anything about it, Sniper and Engie take Scout out back to where the van is sitting. Scout tries to start it up, looks at a couple of things in the cab, and gets back out, tossing the keys back to Sniper.

“You're out of gas, dumbass.”


	34. Demoman & Medic

Again. He's done it again. Medic runs back to the frontlines, seething internally at Demo's complete disregard for his life – he sticky-jumped away from Medic when they began to be flanked by the other team, separated from their own teammates, something that unsurprisingly ended in a trip to respawn for Medic (though he did manage to take their Scout with him, at least).

Halfway to the front, Medic meets up with Pyro, giving them a consistent charge to build Uber, before switching off for the Demoman, as the two of them are currently in the process of trying to take down the enemy's sentry gun.

“Hey, doc,” Demo says, cranking the handle of his sticky launcher for another round of explosives. “Where'd you get off to?”

Medic sputters indignantly for a moment. “Respawn, you _dummkopf!_ You sticky-jumped away from me in the middle of a fight and I died, because syringes are not as potent a weapon as grenades!”

“Och, sorry,” Demo says with a wince. “Needed more ammo.”

“Hmph,” Medic says as the sentry explodes. “Try not to do it again.”

* * *

He does it again. Multiple times. Between him and Soldier, this is getting to be a real problem.

However, it is a problem Medic has a solution to.

* * *

“That's not your usual gun, eh, doc?” Demo says the next day, eyeing the Quick-Fix with a hint of suspicion.

“No, it is not. I've made some improvements to this one and I wanted to give it a field test.”

“Hm,” he says, paying no further attention to the new medi-gun.

At least, he doesn't pay any attention to it until later, when Medic's at his back healing him and the two of them are surrounded by enemies. “Sorry,” he offers, before laying down a sticky bomb and leaping away.

He feels bad about leaving Medic to his certain death, but they've got objectives to complete and Demo can get them done while the majority of the opposing team is distracted.

“Nice try.”

Demo whips his head around. He's still in the air, how is someone talking to him? But there, sailing along behind him, is Medic, grinning maniacally. They land and immediately start making their way to the capture point.

“Is that what you were talking about with your 'improvements'?”

“Yes! I managed to upgrade the gun so that it would transfer your momentum to me as well. You won't be able to shake me so easily now!”

“Ah, doc, you know it wasn't me trying to get rid of you.”

“Of course not! But now I can follow anyone anywhere! I am unstoppable!”

Demo raises an eyebrow. Medic always gets so excitable on the battlefield (and in surgery, and when he's working on his medi-guns, and when there's cake...). He doesn't think that being yanked around behind one of his teammates would qualify for this level of enthusiasm, but here they are.

“And it's fun, too!”

He's never really thought of sticky-jumping as _fun_ before. More of an efficient way of travelling. But he can see how others would see it that way, with the high speed and altitude changes.

“Then I'll do it even more.”

“ _Wunderbar!_ ”

The other team is completely baffled by the flying Medic, and the two of them manage to seize two points in rapid succession, cinching the victory for their team.

* * *

Days later, Demo ambles into the infirmary, his sticky launcher in hand. As usual, Medic is working on some project or other, one hand bloodied to the elbow and the other scratching notes into a book.“Hey, doc, I've got some new stickies to test, and I thought you might want to --”

Medic is immediately up and bustling about, strapping on the Quick-Fix without even bothering to put on his labcoat or gloves. “Let's go!”

They head outside, Medic practically running to get there. They stand together in the courtyard, Demo loading his sticky launcher.

“I'm going to give you some tips, doc,” he says, still cranking away. “When we take off, you should bend your knees and jump. And keep them bent while we're in the air.”

“Understood. But you'll need to give me a signal before you detonate so I know to do it.”

“I'll yell.”

“Yell what?”

“ _KA-BOOOOOM!_ ” They launch into the air, an unsuspecting but delighted Medic flying along behind Demo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I main Medic (and I don't use the Quick-Fix), so this is a thing that happens to me ALL THE TIME. Drives me up the wall.


	35. Soldier & Heavy

“Yo, Solly, Heavy's looking for you,” Scout says, passing by Soldier's open door. “I think he wants to give you the shovel talk.”

To say Soldier is confused by this turn of phrase would be a gross understatement. He has no idea what his beloved entrenching tool has to do with anything, or why Heavy would want to talk about it. But then again, it is a pretty great shovel.

He goes to find Heavy, who's currently in the living room, reading an enormous tome covered in Cyrillic letters. Presumably some kind of Communist propaganda.

“Hello, Heavy! Scout said you wanted to talk about shovels.”

“What? I did not say that. I wanted to talk to you about my sister.”

“Which one?”

Heavy closes the book and gives him a flat look. “Zhanna.”

Soldier brightens further at that. He likes her even more than the shovel.

“Just want to tell you,” Heavy continues, “if you hurt her, I will crush you.”

“Why would I hurt her?” Soldier asks, genuinely baffled. “Unless she's secretly working for Gray Mann!”

“She is not working for Gray Mann. I mean if you hurt her feelings.”

“Oh. She already promised to crush me if I did anything like that.”

“She did?”

“Yes! There were a lot more details, but there was crushing, do not worry!”

“Hmm, looks like little sisters do not need me to scare boyfriends, either.”

“No, I am already terrified! Your scaring is unnecessary!”

Heavy laughs. “Good. If you were not scared I would have to have talk with Zhanna. Might still need to have talk, since she picked you.”

“I was as surprised as you are!” Soldier exclaims, still grinning vacantly. “But I like her! A lot! And while I only live in a box, it is her box too!”

Heavy looks at him, seeming to weigh Soldier's words. Admittedly, he's not the kind of man he would have chosen for his sisters, but despite his many, many faults, Soldier isn't a bad person. He's brave and friendly and inventive and, apparently, willing to share his meagre possessions. Besides, Heavy has enough money to support at least three more sisters.

“I will buy you both a nicer box. After all, you are basically family now.”

“Wow, two boxes!”


	36. Scout & Engineer

It always starts the same way.

“Son,” Engineer will begin, “I'm about to teach you something, so listen up.”

And then he proceeds to give Scout a long-winded, sometimes unnecessary lesson. Today's, however, is definitely necessary.

Engie is alerted to the problem by the loud banging noise coming from the basement. There's only one real thing down there, so he has a good idea what's going on even before he gets there, and his suspicions are confirmed when he finds Scout knee-deep in a sea of bubbles pouring out of the washing machine as it jitters and rumbles across the floor, occasionally punctuated by Scout kicking at it.

“Stupid freakin' thing,” he grumbles to himself. “Just need to wash my clothes, can't even do that, you piece of crap!”

“What are you doing?” Engineer asks him, as if the answer isn't obvious.

Scout's head whips in Engie's direction. “I'm _trying_ to do my laundry, but this thing is complete crap!”

“Son,” he says, making Scout groan, “I'm about to teach you something, so listen up.”

“Dude, I know how to do laundry.”

Engie raises an eyebrow. “Doesn't look like it to me.”

Scout huffs. “What, it ain't like it's hard. You stick your clothes in it, you throw some soap in, you crank this thing, and bam, laundry.”

“And that's why the machine is doing the hokey-pokey around the room and there's soap everywhere?”

“Hey, I don't know why it's doing that! I just did what Demo told me.”

“Well, no wonder,” Engie says, finally wading through the suds to turn off the washing machine. “What did he tell you?”

“What I just said. Put clothes in, put soap in, crank dial, wait like half an hour.”

Engineer gives him a smile. “More or less, I guess, but it's a bit more complicated than that.” He opens the lid of the washing machine. “For one, you've got way too much in here, which is why it's bouncing around like that. How much soap did you put in?”

Scout looks away, hand on the back of his head. “Uh. Some.”

“How. Much?”

Scout shows him with the scoop.

“Damn, it's a wonder the whole base ain't flooded. No, you gotta use a lot less than that.”

“But I got all kinds of shit on my clothes! Blood, mostly, but also Pyro threw a thing of gravy at me a couple days ago and got it all over my shirt.”

Engie is puzzled. “Why were they throwing gravy at you?”

“I, uh, might have snuck up behind them while they were making it, yelled 'boo', and then tried to run away.”

“Scout,” Engie says, and he sounds almost like Scout's ma when he says it. _I'm not mad, I'm disappointed._

“Yeah, yeah, I already said sorry, and they apologized for chucking gravy at me.”

“Good. I don't want to have to get in between you kids. Now hold these,” Engineer directs him, hefting half of Scout's wet clothes into his arms.

“Aw, jeez! Warn a guy next time.”

“That's what you get. You can just drop them into the basket for now, I guess.” Scout immediately complies. “Now _this_ is the right amount of detergent, y'hear?”

“Yeah.”

“And put it on the right setting. I know you can read, so don't use knits unless you're washing all those sweaters and whatnot Medic and Sniper keep making.”

“Yeah, what's up with that, anyway?”

“Hell if I know.” Engie punches the start button and the washing starts up again, this time not shaking or overflowing. “There you go. Ask someone next time, all right?”

“Okay, okay, jeez, _Mom_.”

Engie just claps him on the shoulder with what Scout now knows is his creepy robot hand. “Go get the mop, son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team Parent!Engie is like, my favourite thing.
> 
> ALSO
> 
> THIS IS THE LAST REGULAR CHAPTER
> 
> THERE'S JUST THE BIG GROUP ONE LEFT AND THEN WE'RE DONE
> 
> WOAH


	37. Everyone & Everyone Else

The first of their three guests to arrive is Miss Pauling, who unwraps herself from her scarf and hands it to Pyro, who scurries off to put it away.

“Merry Smissmas, Miss Pauling!” Soldier tells her, giving a salute.

“Merry Smissmas. Okay, before the Administrator or Mr. Hale get here, I need to make sure everything is in order.”

“Is that what you're doing here four hours early?”

“Yes, because this is _not_ my day off, even if it is for everyone else. Show me around the base; I need to see everything.”

“I'll do it!” Scout volunteers, quickly. “I mean, uh, if Miss Pauling don't mind.”

Miss Pauling _does_ kind of mind, but she is far too professional to say anything, so she accepts Scout's offer. She doesn't accept his arm, though, when he tries to get her to take it. Despite the implication that she wants to do this inspection mostly alone, the rest of the team trails after her and Scout.

First stop, the common area.

“What is...what is going on in here?”

The room has been decorated for the occasion, and they've dragged all the tables into it for dinner later, since with the extra people they're not going to fit in the kitchen. However, the decorations are not what one would call _standard_. The centrepiece appears to be a paper-mâché severed head, the garlands circling the walls are barbed wire mixed with strings of lights, and the tree is festooned with grenades.

“We kind of had to make do with what we had,” Engineer explains. “We didn't have much in the way of decorations, so we used weapons instead.”

“This can't be safe.”

“Och, don't worry, lass, I've got my eye on things. No tree's going to explode under my watch!” Demo puts in.

“And the lights are securely fastened, I did it myself,” Engineer continues.

“And the head?”

“I made that!” Soldier proclaims, proudly. “These privates told me I couldn't put a real head on the table. I should have them all up for insubordination!”

“Well, at least one normal decision was made today. Let's go to the kitchen.”

The kitchen is actually a better sight than the common area; Pyro's holed up in there with a huge turkey and a plethora of other dishes, and so far everything seems to be going normally. They're not even trying to use their flamethrower to do the cooking. Miss Pauling breathes a sigh of relief.

“I don't need to check over the labs, do I?”

Medic, Engie, and Demo exchange looks. “No.” “Nae.” “Definitely not.”

This makes Miss Pauling a little suspicious, but she's not going to take the bait. As long as nothing barges into the common area of the base while everyone's having dinner, they can keep their experiments as secret as they want.

“I've got some regular decorations in my trunk,” she says as they return to the living area from the kitchen. “We can quickly put those up instead, and then I guess everything's about as good as it's going to get.”

“I'll help you get 'em, Miss Pauling!” Scout says, and then he's up and out the door before she can put her coat on and follow.

“Some”, in Miss Pauling's vocabulary, seems to mean “four boxes worth”, and soon all eight of the mercenaries who aren't in the kitchen are trying to put them up. Demo takes the grenades off the tree, and Spy replaces them with glass baubles. Engie pulls down the barbed wire, and he and Soldier put up Miss Pauling's lights. Sniper and Scout are set to placing seasonal knick-knacks, including personalized stockings that they nail willy-nilly to the wall in the absence of a fireplace, and Heavy and Medic are putting out tablecloths.

After about half an hour's work, the room actually looks quite nice. Miss Pauling reviews her work, hands on her hips, and smiles. Her bosses are going to be so impressed.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” she says, running back out to her car and returning with a large bag. “Your Smissmas gifts.”

“You want us to open these, or put them under the tree?” Scout asks, fingers hovering over the wrapping paper on his.

“No, no, open them!”

The gifts turn out to be brightly-coloured holiday sweaters, even gaudier than anything Medic or Sniper makes. Ever ready to try and get on Miss Pauling's good side, Scout shrugs his on over his t-shirt immediately, but the others don't seem as eager.

“You don't like them,” she says, face falling.

This changes everyone's minds on the spot, and soon she's faced with nine mercenaries wearing hand-knitted Smissmas sweaters over their uniforms. Half of them didn't even take off the grenades they wear across their chests, creating odd-looking bumps in the wool, but they don't seem to mind.

“You look great!” she exclaims, clasping her hands together. Scout preens a bit. The others give her some unsure smiles and don't say anything. Three of them wander off to the kitchen to give Pyro a hand (and to give them their sweater), and the others settle in with drinks to await the arrival of the Administrator and Saxton Hale.

They don't have to wait long.

“SAXTON HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALE!” comes a voice, increasing steadily in volume until the roof collapses, and the CEO of Mann Co. stands up from the rubble, the Administrator under his arm. “Well, here we are!”

“Yes, I noticed,” says the Administrator, brushing the dust off her suit and looking at the hole in the ceiling.

“Wow, what's going on in here?” Hale asks, taking a look around at Miss Pauling's decorations.

“I decorated. With the mercs' help.” There's some grumbling from the general area of the couch.

“It looks terrible! Hardly dangerous at all! Where's the barbed wire? The explosives? The guns?”

“I knew we should've left that crap up,” Scout mutters. 

Engie slaps him upside the head. “No, you didn't.”

“No matter! If anything needs killing, _Saxton Hale_ can use this adorable snowman as a bludgeon!”

Miss Pauling looks a little horrified at the idea of her figurine being used to bludgeon anything, but says nothing. She also looks horrified at the Administrator tipping the ash from her cigarette into one of the glasses she had Sniper put out for dinner, but she _definitely_ isn't going to say anything about that.

And she doesn't have to, because Spy intercedes. “You might find this useful, madame,” he says, sliding an ashtray onto the table. “You'll have to forgive our lack of preparation in this area; I'm the only regular smoker on base.”

The Administrator just gives him a look so terrifying that he hightails it into the kitchen, which he had been scrupulously avoiding because he just knows it will end with Engineer or Pyro or the both of them roping him into doing the dishes.

“What are you _watching_?” Sniper asks Scout, over by the television.

“Uh,” Scout answers, looking sheepish, “ _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_.”

“Rudolph the who now?”

“It's like a special show they put on at Christmas. I usually watch it with my brothers' kids, and I saw it was on, so I kind of. Stopped here.”

Sniper takes a seat on the couch. “Why's it look like that?”

“I don't really know. Some weird animation with like, clay statues.”

“Better not let Miss Pauling catch you watching this,” Spy says, uncloaking behind the couch, noticing an opportunity, and scaring the living daylights out of Sniper and Scout. “It might hurt your chances with her.”

“Oh god, she didn't see me, did she?”

“No, I believe she is currently in the kitchen, making sure Pyro doesn't try to charbroil everything.”

“Nah, they wouldn't. Py's a good cook, man.”

“She doesn't know that. And perhaps this would be a good time to earn her favour.”

“What? How?”

“You can show her that you're helpful. Selfless. Go offer to do something in the kitchen.”

“Yeah! Good idea, Spy. Thanks, man.”

Scout runs off, and Spy takes a seat on the couch, lighting a smoke. Sniper smirks next to him.

“What are you smiling at, bushman?”

“You.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because I can't tell if you've secretly got the softest heart of all of us, or you were just trying to get out of doing the dishes again.”

“Shut up.”

“Aw, where's your Smissmas spirit, mate?”

* * *

“How're things going in here?” Scout asks, entering the kitchen and trying not to look at Miss Pauling too much when he says it. Pyro, wearing their toque, is in front of the stove, and Soldier's in front of one of the counters shucking peas.

“Not bad, son,” Engie says, arms deep in a pot of potatoes, attempting to mash them. “Turkey's cooking and the rest of this stuff's about done.”

“So you don't need any help?”

“Nrrr,” says Pyro in the exact second that Engineer says “Yes.” The two of them exchange a look. 

“Frrd's frrn, Rrngie,” Pyro says.

“Yeah, but this way none of us has to do the dishes.”

“Rr! Yrrh, Scrrt crrn drr thrrse.”

Scout rolls his eyes. “Thanks a lot, man.”

“Get scrubbing, private!”

“Shuck off, Soldier.”

Miss Pauling giggles beneath her hand, and Scout is ready to declare this the best Smissmas ever.

“Come on, Py, we can go spend some time in the living room until the turkey's done,” Engie says.

“Yrry!”

“Hopefully Spy's not controlling the television, he never puts anything decent on.”

* * *

Spy is, in fact, currently in control of the television, but he and Sniper have become strangely invested in the adventures of Rudolph and his friends, and so the special is still playing. They only pull away from it to make sure no one else is coming close enough to see what they're watching, but they still miss Pyro and Engineer approaching.

“Look, Pyro, it's that show about the deer you were watching with me last year,” Engie says. Spy practically leaps out of his skin. “Ah, calm down, Spy, no one cares if you wanna watch _Rudolph_.”

Pyro walks around the couch to settle in front of it, and Engineer joins Sniper and Spy on it. They both look at him with goggle-eyes. “What? The songs are catchy.”

* * *

“Scrub harder, maggot! That crusty stuff will not come off by itself!”

“What the hell were you guys even making in this?!”

* * *

“Do you think we should talk to them?” Heavy asks Medic, the two of them standing in a corner with drinks, looking at their bosses crowded around a table.

“Talk to them? About what?”

Heavy shrugs. “Work?”

“Oh, yes, I'm sure they would love that. 'Yes, hello, are you enjoying your day off? Would you like a recounting of the battles you watch over anyway?' No, _mein Freund_ , I don't think so.”

“You come up with idea, then.”

Medic sputters. “Why do we even need to talk to them? No one else is.” He waves an arm towards the group around the television.

“Is polite. They are guests, and our bosses.”

“Ach, you put too much stock in manners. I don't think they expect it of us anyway – we're mercenaries, and one of them is Saxton Hale. He'd rather punch us than talk to us.”

Heavy smiles. “Have new idea.”

“Oh, no.”

* * *

“I like your style, mate!” Saxton Hale says, flexing his fists. “A Smissmas boxing match!”

Medic hides his face in his hands.

* * *

“You are completely incorrigible,” Medic says, pointing his medi-gun at Heavy, the team still outside in the makeshift boxing ring. “What on earth made you think fighting Saxton Hale would be a good idea?”

“I don't know, doc, I think Mr. Hale enjoyed it,” Engineer puts in.

“Probably thought you were being polite,” Sniper says. “It's an Aussie thing, fighting your guests.”

“Then why didn't you fight him?” Spy asks. “You are our resident wallaby-fancier.”

Sniper scoffs. “Me fight one of the strongest men in the world? Have you seen me, mate? He'd probably break my spine and wonder where the challenge was.”

“Yeah, probably,” says Scout, still wearing his rubber gloves from washing the dishes. “You're like a stick, man.”

“You're one to talk, stringbean,” Engineer says, grinning. “I think it's probably best for us all that Heavy did the, uh, heavy lifting.”

“If his injuries don't burn out my medi-gun,” Medic grumbles. Heavy just smiles at him.

The nine of them troop back inside to find Miss Pauling, the Administrator, and Saxton Hale all in front of the television.

“Are they --” Demo starts.

“Yes, sir,” Soldier finishes.

Their bosses are all watching _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ , and not a one of them seems to be anything but pleased with it.  
“Wow, Pyro, you did a great job on dinner,” Miss Pauling tells them, leaning over the table in order to see them.

“Thrrnk yrr!”

“And I helped!” proclaims Soldier, holding up a spoonful of peas.

“You sure did,” Engie says, patting his arm. “Are you sure you don't want anything, Ms. Administrator?”

“I am fine,” she answers, continuing to smoke, tapping the ash into the full plate of food in front of her. Everyone sneaks a look at Pyro to make sure they're not upset.

“All righty, then.”

Between the twelve of them, one of whom is Saxton Hale, there are no leftovers. Even the Administrator's ashy plate gets eaten.

“Ah, that was a great meal, lad. Lass. I still don't know what ye are, but you sure can cook.”

Pyro mumbles something that sounds like “aw, shucks”.

“Time to get moving, private!” Soldier exclaims, looking at Scout.

“What? No, dude, I'm way too full to go run laps or whatever.”

“I was not talking about that! I was talking about the dishes!”

“What?!”

“Yes, you will want to get started on them before everything starts to ...congeal,” Spy adds, smirking.

“No. No way! I already did all the --”

Spy points discreetly in Miss Pauling's direction. Luckily for Scout, she's not paying attention right now, but Scout knows Spy isn't above catching her eye and _making_ her notice.

Scout collects everyone's plates, all the while glaring at Spy and Soldier.

“Oh! Thank you, Scout,” Miss Pauling says when he takes her dishes. Scout almost drops the whole stack, but recovers nicely. When he looks up again, he notices most of the team is grinning at him and giving him the thumbs-up, only to stop when Miss Pauling looks down the table.

“I suppose now is the time for the gift exchange,” the Administrator says after Scout's done bussing the table. “Though judging by your sweaters, I believe Miss Pauling has already distributed hers.”

“Yes, I hope you don't mind! I just thought it would be nice if they could wear them for dinner.”

The Administrator gives her a slow, cold look. “Yes, it in no way negatively impacted my appetite. Now run out to the car and get my presents for the mercs.”

“Yes, Administrator.”

“I'll get mine, too!” Saxton Hale says, sprinting out of the room. Everyone else migrates over to the tree. Spy admires his tasteful redecoration of it.

“All right, presents! Courtesy of Mann Co.!” Hale says, returning with a bag on his back. He starts tossing them out, which means that everyone has to swap around to find the one actually intended for them.

“Hell yeah, weapons!” Scout cries, holding up his new pistol. Everyone else pulls something similar out of their boxes, excited to read the manuals and find out what they do. 

“Thanks, partner,” Engie says, the first to remember his manners. The others follow suit; Pyro even adds in a hug.

“Here you go, guys!” Miss Pauling says when she re-enters, a pile of presents tumbling from her arms. Scout leaps up to help.

“All right, this one's for Demo...this one for Heavy...Medic...Soldier...Spy...Sniper...Pyro...Engie...and me!” Scout immediately tears into his. The others follow, more calmly.

There's a collective “huh?” when opening the boxes reveals nothing inside but an envelope. Confused, everyone slits them open, warily.

“ _Demoman,_ ” Demo says, reading the letter inside aloud, “ _Congratulations on not being fired or dying permanently this year. Your gift is another year of employment. Sincerely, the Administrator._ ”

“Merry Smissmas,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHRISTMAS IN JULY
> 
> Anyway, thanks to you all for reading and commenting! If you want to, you can follow me on [Tumblr](http://gilgameshwulfenbach.tumblr.com) or add me on Steam (@intergalacticwag). Catch you all on my next fic!


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